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THE SPIDER OF TRUXILLO 









































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The Spider of I ruxillo 

(THE PASSING SHOW) 


EXCITING ADVENTURES ON LAND 
AND SEA 


/ 


BY 


Richard 



AUTHOR OF 


“My Official Wife.” 

“ In the Old Chateau.” 

“A Daughter of Judas.” 

“The Little Lady of Lagunitas.” 
“The Flying Halcyon.” 

“For Life and Love.” 

“The Anarchist.” 

“The Masked Venus.” 

“The Princess of Alaska.” 
“Delilah of Harlem.” 

“ Miss Devereux of the Mariquita.” 
“ Prince Schamyl’s Wooing.” 


Neely’s Popular Library 

No. 53. Nov. 1^,-1895. $6.00 per year. Entered as Second-class Matter 
'i/ at Chicago 



Publisher 




NEW YORK 


CHICAGO 


Copyright, 1893, 1896, 

BY 

F. TENNYSON NEELY 


All Rights Reserved 



AGAINST ODDS. 


A NIGHT AT THE CHORRERA RANCHO. 

SPANISH HONDURAS 

1890. 

PART I. 

THE LA HAGUA MINE. 

I T was only the fear of just punishment which 
drove Adrian Hope, after serving as a subordi- 
nate officer in the Northern army during the war 
of the Rebellion, to that refuge of the escaped 
villains of all countries, Spanish Honduras. 

When the volunteers were paid off in 1865, 
Hope quickly betook himself to Truxillo, with a 
long roll of unpunished crimes blackening his 
twenty-two years. Of respectable birth, he was 
carefully educated in New York, by the clergy 
of the Mother Church which he disgraced. This 
renegade American was an accomplished classic 
scholar, a modern linguist, and possessed of a 
keen and crafty cunning dangerous to all. 
Smooth, plausible, inured to every fatigue, a liar 
3 


4 


THE PASSING SHOlV 


and thief, he had innate courage, sly wit, and a 
devilish ingenuity in evil. 

The thousand expedients of actual service were 
added to his mental stock in trade, and with a 
black heart he laughed at futile pursuit, and 
vowed himself to a career of crime. Too lazy 
and dishonest for any useful calling, he steadily 
added worse actions to his long roll of foul deeds. 
Among the legions discharged at the close of the 
war, were many men who richly deserved the 
gallows or the yard arm. By sheer weight of 
numbers these villains broke through the net of 
justice. No greater villain than Adrian Hope 
ever skulked under the flag he dishonored. 

An accomplished scribe, a practical scientist, 
and an omnivorous reader, he possessed every 
arm which education and precocious experience 
could give to the wicked. Hypocrite, voluptu- 
ary, traitor and “vaurien,” his career of fraud 
and dissimulation spread from the Pacific ocean 
to Europe, in the twenty-five years succeeding 
the war. In 1865 he might have vaguely 
dreamed of an honest career among the simple 
peasants of Honduras, but his usefulness to the 
pirates, smugglers, corrupt officials, and black- 


THE PASSING SHOW 


5 


faced “bravos” of Honduras, led him onward 
through endless villainies. 

Humbug projects, visionary colonies, govern- 
mental swindles, personal frauds, and other dark 
schemes tossed him to and fro, on the wildest 
waves of the barbaric life of Spanish Honduras. 
Appearing in Paris, after deluding an Irish colony 
to the grim poisoned jungles of Honduras, he 
quickly wasted in foul riot in the gay capital, his 
ill gotten gains. After the starved and fever 
stricken Irish, cajoled from their land, were lying 
in silent graves, Adrian Hope returned to Hon- 
duras, chased back by villainies for which the 
iron hand of European justice would have 
branded him for life as an unpitied felon. 

Most of his victims were dead, the rest were 
scattered and to the foul scum of the worst land 
on earth, he returned. Useful with pen, tongue 
and education, to the cabals of the tumble-down 
Honduranean towns, he slowly gravitated into 
the self abasement of drink and half-caste life. 
At forty-seven, in the year 1890, Adrian Hope 
was as dangerous a scoundrel as even Honduras 
could produce among its many refugees from the 
criminal classes of the world. Strangely enough, 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


his mental vigor never failed him. An “indigene” 
in his knowledge of the mixed local tribes and 
their dialects, he was skilled in every trick and 
artifice of the wild people he lived with. 

His dirty “cuartel” in Truxillo, contained a 
few hundred books. Lazy and unkempt, lolling 
in his hammock, a few bananas, a crock of water, 
or the easily obtained fish and tropic fruits, gave 
him a meagre subsistence. When a steamer ar- 
rived from the United States, or the West Indies, 
Hope, clad in motley semi-civilized garb, would 
lurk around the old stone hotel, the saloons and 
stores, and prey on- the different passengers who 
needed the services of a general valet-de place. 
Pander, spy and swindler, he was not even 
thankful for the brandy and cigars lavished on 
him, nor the ill gotten gains robbed from the 
unsuspecting “innocents” drawn to the “Paradise” 
of Honduras. 

Driven out of the interior of this wild, danger- 
ous and yet beautiful land, for his varied crimes, 
he hovered around Truxillo. Schoolmaster, 
scribe, petty lawyer, occasional surveyor, lacquey 
and go-between, his record embraced occurrences 
which beggared belief. Coward by choice, not 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


7 


by nature, he had now learned to guard his own 
safety, by skillfully inciting others to crime. Yet 
several mysterious disappearances of travelling 
foreigners, some tiagic events in local families, 
and a number of villainous deeds of lust, fraud 
and violence, forced him to lurk near the port of 
Truxillo,. from whence he could easily escape to 
any one of the hundred hiding places of the 
West Indies. 

While lying in his hammock, in his bestial 
abode, lazily watching some low browed native 
woman drudge, hardly out of her “teens,” slaving 
for him, Adrian Hope devoured every odd Ameri- 
can newspaper to be had. Petty thefts and small 
frauds closed many doors to him, yet the so-called 
“merchants” were fain to use his pen and many 
useful accomplishments in their polyglot corre- 
spondence. Shunned and feared, detested and 
despised, a twenty dollar roll of silver would be 
thrown him when his work was over. With this 
and a box of cigars, (supplemented with a couple 
of bottles of brandy), he would debauch until 
some new call for his services opened a reluctant 
door to him again. 

Lazily recovering from his excesses, his spare 


8 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


time, (when no fresh schemes were busying his 
devilish nature), was devoted to conning his 
Horace, poring over Faust, dreaming with 
sublime Shakespeare, or turning the pages of 
Dante. These diverse works, (in their original 
tongues) with his other still treasured books, 
were either relics of his college days, or the casual 
finds of a book worm adventurer. Hope fell 
heir by “hook or crook, ” to all the odd volumes 
tossed around this lazy, dreamy, fever haunted 
tropic seaport, by the ignorant. The only line 
of demarcation between Hope and the beast was 
his satanic intelligence, his perverted gifts, his 
wasted education, and the curse to mankind that 
he could not travel on “all fours.” 

A living semblance of the“serving man, ”so viv- 
idly painted by Edgar in “King Lear;” he was an 
educated modern Ishmael. From this fertile and 
vicious brain, in the year 1889 was evolved the 
singular plot of decoying some inexperienced 
stranger into the interior of Honduras, under 
pretense of the secret purchase of a gold mine of 
enormous value, supposed to have been discov- 
ered by faithful and ignorant Indians, whose tra- 
ditional religious faith had caused them to 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


9 


acquaint Hope alone with its existence. The 
object was the murder and robbery of the inno- 
cent messenger. 

A chance copy of a leading American paper, 
recalling old acquaintances, falling in his way, 
Hope, with plausible and guarded letters painted 
this great “Treasure Trove,” to several persons 
connected with a leading American capitalist, 
whom he had distantly known in his boyhood. 
On account of the lack of banking facilities, the 
persons addressed were urged to send a large 
sum of American gold in care of a trusted agent, 
who must arrive “secretly.” The most minute 
directions, and a glowing description of the 
“bonanza,” accompanied these plausible epistles. 

It is not strange that the chase of the “Yellow 
Curse of the World” and the tempting mystery 
of the project, caused several northern million- 
aires, senators and capitalists, to dispatch a 
trusty agent to Truxillo to meet Adrian Hope, 
after some delay, due to a necessarily slow cor- 
respondence. 

The artful wiles of the schemer were so over- 
laid with minute directions, that they finally 
excited some little suspicion. Too much stress 


10 


THE PASSING SHOW 


was laid on “coming alone ) ” “come with no 
servant,” “/ will guide your agent to the hidden 
treasure,” “be absolutely silent as to all,” “The 
money must be brought in ready gold" Hope 
cautiously urged, “as banks are almost unknown 
here.” “Let but one person come,” the tempter 
continued, and “let him bring only a light fowl- 
ing piece , as pistols and rifles are not permitted 
in this country.” 

The coterie of northern capitalists addressed 
were accustomed to send trusty men over the 
whole globe on their vast projects. They finally 
agreed with one of their number, a western 
millionaire miner, then a Senator of the United 
States. “ Gentlemen !” said he, “we can send a ship 
load of money quickly over from New Orleans to 
Truxillo, if it proves necessary. I’ll pick you out a 
man to go down, who will not be deceived in this 
mine. I don’t like to send a fortune in the gold 
we have in exchange for what we are to get, until 
I know that the mine is there , and the purchase 
money will be safely guarded. I don ’ t care to risk 
this venture on the judgment of any one man, 
either; will you select a couple more to go over 
there? Three heads are better than one. Three 


THE PASSING SHOW 


11 


Americans together in case of sickness or trouble 
can aid each other. There is yellow fever, a 
rough wilderness, and many unknown dangers 
to meet. I have travelled over Mexico. I am not 
a “literary man,” but I know that Cortez buried 
the flower of his army on his disastrous trip to 
the trackless interior of this same Honduras. I 
know also that several generations of the helpless 
natives died under the lash during the Spanish 
occupation, vainly dredging for gold in the gorges 
and streams of this tropic country. Now, I am 
a practical man. I have searched all records 
fruitlessly for any great harvest of gold, past or 
present, which has been reaped down there. 

“Of twenty different modern mining enterprises 
attempted in Honduras, I know that only one has 
paid anything, and that there have been many 
disastrous failures. Let us proceed cautiously. 
I am a bad Senator, but I am a pretty good 
miner.” 

A volley of compliments attested the general 
disbelief of the milionaire’s verdict as to his 
Senatorial usefulness. His sensible business 
suggestions were at once adopted unanimously. 

In three weeks, while Adrian Hope smiled in 


12 


THE PASSING SHOW 


glee at the apparent success of his diabolical 
plan, three resolute men left New Orleans quietly 
to meet the guardian of the “Treasure Vault” of 
the mountain gnomes, in the terrific gorges of 
the summit range of Honduras. Well outfitted 
and heavily armed, provided with the best letters 
and credentials, they were ready to plunge into 
that great quadrangle four hundred miles square, 
which on the eastern slopes of Spanish Hon- 
duras, encloses a region as wild to-day as dark- 
est Africa. 

Gloomy forests, sluggish rivers and wastes, 
rocky jaguar haunted mountains, and unexplored 
tropical jungles, lay between the dreamy old 
Spanish seaport of Truxillo, and this fabulous 
hidden mine. 

An ominous farewell at New Orleans put the 
party on their guard. “Look out for yourselves! 
Gentlemen!” said an old merchant of the Span- 
ish main., “Many go, but few return !” A cipher 
telegram preceded them, as follows: “Agent 
Coming.” The spider of Truxillo rejoiced! He 
hoped soon to slip away to Europe by the west 
coast, enriched by the robbery of the murdered 
agent. 


THE PASSING SHOW 


13 


It was with undisguised astonishment that Ad- 
rian Hope met on the strand at Truxillo the par- 
ty of three. One was an old frontier railroad engi- 
neer, who had faced the Sioux and Cheyennes on 
the Union Pacific Railroad in the days of ’6 5 to 
*68; another, a resolute young New Yorker; the 
third, a western man accustomed to the ways of 
the frontier ard the Spanish-American people of 
the baser sort. His army experience had given 
him a knowledge of the worst, as well as the 
better classes of Spanish-American citizens. 

Plope’s uneasy welcome, and evident surprise 
at the arrival of three experienced persons, in- 
stead of one helpless agent, caused him to drop 
the suspicious remark: “Why, I thought only 
one would cqme ! It is now so much more diffi- 
cult!” The splendid outfit of the party aston- 
ished him, but the presence of a number of 
heavy iron-bound boxes, excited him. Therein 
was probably the long coveted gold; his ultimate 
plunder. They really contained cartridges, med- 
icines and valuable small supplies. 

To delay, to weary out, and to separate the 
pajty; to get one (the most patient and untiring) 
alone in the interior, with that supposed treasure, 


14 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


was his second plan. Force was useless ! Treach- 
ery must win the prize ! The sequel wa-s to be, 
a man murdered; killed by cowardly treachery, 
and lying silent in some thicket, to be devoured 
by the forest beasts. Hope, with the gold, pushing 
further into the interior, guided by a few scoun- 
drels selected by him, would reach the Pacific, 
and thence gain Europe by Panama from the 
west. A plausible letter as to a sudden death 
by fever, or accident, written later, would delay 
immediate pursuit; as the party well knew that 
letters could not reach them for several months, 
if they pierced the interior. As for American 
diplomatic inquiry, it is a mere farce at best! 

Walter Seymour (the western man), and his 
two companions received from one or two dis- 
couraged American wanderers, several grave 
expressions of remonstrance and discouragement 
as to going into the dangerous interior alone 
under the guidance of Adrian Hope. Yet, loyal 
to their orders, they kept silence, and two weeks 
after their arrival with several villainous looking 
natives and a muleteer, they left Truxillo for 
the far towering summits of the great Cordillera 
ridges. 


The passing show 


15 

Fifteen days plunging through forests, and 
dragging over rocky range piled on range, swim- 
ming or rafting dangerous rivers, and toiling on 
diminutive mules over, arid wastes, brought the 
party to a remote Indian village in a terrific gorge 
of the Mangalile river. This was the end; beyond 
this there was “No Thoroughfare. ” 

In these gloomy morasses and trackless jungles 
the American party lost faith in the whole enter- 
prise, and worn and harassed, rested dejectedly 
in a mud hovel in the lonely hills. 

Hope, silent, morose, and plotting, was busied 
daily with his budding scheme to separate the 
three suspicious explorers, for he really had no 
mine to show! 

At Arinal, (a straggling town), some hundred 
miles from the dismal eyrie which Hope an- 
nounced as the end of the journey, much of the 
valuable heavy baggage had been left in charge 
of a so-called Alcalde; a secret confederate of 
the villainous Hope. 

The heavy boxes (really containing reserve 
cartridges for the various arms of the expedition) 
were left in a clumsily barred and locked store 
room, with other rare and costly goods; a rich 


1G 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


future plunder for the two scoundrels who quietly 
conspired, while the now distrustful Americans 
watched night and day for any overt treachery; 
sleeping with their arms belted on. Their excuse 
for this caution, was the thousand varied forms 
of birds and beasts, the huge serpents and mani- 
fest dangers of the horrid path. This was suffi- 
cient for their active armed neutrality. 

Hope, (with secret dismay) noted the unerring 
aim of the Americans in their daily hunting ex- 
ploits, and realized that stratagem, not force, 
must be used to finally secure the plunder of 
their persons, as well as the presumed money in 
the boxes. He would naturally be the first victim 
of an open fight. He did not realize yet that a 
prudential silence had been agreed on between 
the three now doubtful travelers. 

His mind was busied with a scheme for some 
surprise or massacre, where the razor edged 
machete, wielded by creeping, cowardly, bare 
footed, desperate ruffians might easily dispatch 
the disgusted explorers, while sleeping, or un- 
armed. 

In two weeks after the arrival at the dirty 
Indian village in Mangalile, the fearful chasm of 


The passing show 


17 


the river was thoroughly traversed. The famed 
mine, located on the summit of a terrific peak, 
almost perpendicular in its steepness, was finally 
reached, fle had now no further excuse for 
delay. 

Notwithstanding every effort to divide or in- 
volve the party up to this time, Hope, with the 
three resolute Americans, now irritated beyond 
patience, was forced to finally exhibit a trivial 
hole, sunk only a few feet, and evidently 
scratched in the red quartz hillside, after the 
arrival of the party. If it was dug before , it was 
only intended to be the grave of one agent lured 
into the lonely nest of mountain villains. It was 
located twelve miles from the town, on a peak 
towering in a sort of “Wolf’s Glen.” 

Hope little realized that the party of explorers, 
had keenly studied every chance word and list- 
ened to much gossip. They had conferred with 
members of all classes, only to find that not a 
hundred dollars worth of gold had been found in 
the vicinity in fifty years. There was no gold, 
ore, ledge or sign of metal in sight. No sign 
of any. Seymour, listening to all chatter, con- 
cealed his knowledge of Spanish. 


18 


THE PASSING SH01V 


Standing two thousand feet above the almost 
impassible gorge of the dangerous river cut up 
with enormous granite ledges, the three strangers 
realized that they had been swindled and duped. 
They were on a fool’s chase. The “faithful In- 
dians” had not been found. The ore, or gold 
bearing quartz was not forthcoming. Even the 
brutal peasants of the little barbaric hamlet 
laughed to scorn the idea of “Gold,” and pointed 
significantly to their foreheads. These rude signs 
indicated “Fool,” or “Lunatic.” 

It was near daylight the next day when the 
party, threading the dangerous trail arrived 
exhausted at their mud hovel; worn and fever 
wearied, tired and disgusted, they were all em- 
bittered. Life, temper, and mutual confidence 
were sorely tried by a sudden quarrel between 
the three Americans, fomented and aided by 
Hope. A portion of the prospecting outfit was 
abandoned at the town, there being no further 
use, or value in it. Dragged over the beetling 
precipices of Honduras, these now useless articles 
represented their weight in silver. 

Three days later, in mistrust and mutual accu- 
sation, the Americans unwisely separated. Two 


THE PASSING SHOW 


19 


of them determined to reach the coast by a route 
supposed to avoid some of the awful miseries of 
the dreaded fifteen days backward march. On 
the exact lines where fearless Hernando Cortez 
dug the lonely graves of three hundred match- 
less veterans, Walter Seymour moodily prepared 
to return alone with Hope. Sick, desperate, 
and worn out he only dreamed of reaching the 
sea, even if yellow-fever haunted Truxillo was 
the only goal. 

To stay alone was to fall a prey to violence or 
sickness. To retrace his steps with Hope, was 
to face possible treachery and a hardship threat- 
ening journey. Pride kept him silent! 

Hope, silently revolving his now easier plan 
of plunder or murder, added to his concealed 
resentment against Seymour, the bitterness due 
to Seymour’s indignant verdict that the mine 
was a “fraud and a swindle.” Hope well knew 
that to Seymour was entrusted by the others the 
duty of removing to Truxillo the valuable deposit 
left at Arinal. For prudential reason, Seymour 
(thrown on his own resources), decided not to 
quarrel openly with Hope, after the departure 
of his companions, who cut loose for the “Sea,” 
eager to save their lives. 


20 


THE PASSING SHOW 


It was a “Sauve qui peut !” Hope, acclimated 
and used to the life of a human beast, a fugitive 
and world wanderer, by pushing on to the west 
could now easily gain the Pacific ocean. He had 
some hundreds of dollars of “advances.” He had 
friendly fellow scoundrels everywhere on the way. 
Seymour, who had successfully dissembled his 
very fair knowledge of Spanish allowed Hope to 
be the daily interpreter. 

Almost in open rupture, Seymour and Hope 
rode out of Mangalile towards the sea. Seymour 
(girding on his cartridge belt, with its heavy 
knife and a Texas Lone Star revolver) swore to 
himself that either he would return to wife and 
friends, or that Adrian Hope should never live a 
moment after the first overt act. Hope, (plotting 
for the robbery of the deposit at Arinal) mentally 
decided to permit Seymour to pass that point 
unharmed, towards the sea. This was necessary 
in order to gain quiet possession of the valuables. 
A quasi official report that Seymour had obtained 
the goods and safely gone on towards Truxillo, 
would smother or delay any later inquiry after 
his death by his American friends. 

If Walter Seymour should be lost or die on 


THE PASSING SHOJV 


21 


the last two-thirds of the road, Hope, (by a skill- 
ful quarrel) leaving there apparently to pursue 
his march alone, could prove an easy “Honduras 
alibi.” The fearful sufferings of the party, alone 
would explain the death of Seymour. Hope knew 
well that the others wou/d probably leave the 
hated land at the nearest little seaport they could 
reach, trusting to Seymour to close up the 
affairs of the disastrous expedition, and make his 
own way out northward to the United States 
with the last news of the failure. 

There was a convulsion in Hope’s nerves, 
however, when he realized on the first day’s 
return march, that Seymour rode always behind 
him, and only allowed four or five paces between 
them. On one or two occasions, the single 
muleteer, (armed with his four foot naked heavy 
broadsword) bareheaded, and clad only in a single 
garment and rawhide sandals, tried to drop be - 
hind Seymour! In vain! The veteran traveler 
quietly halted and calmly pointed to the front. 
That frontier pistol seemed to grow larger in 
Hope’s eyes, and he noticed that Seymour had 
lashed it around his neck and shoulder with a 
heavy cord. 


22 


THE PASSING SHOW 


This useful hint was not lost on the renegade. 
Five days after the sullen parting in the hills, 
Seymour rode into Arinal behind Hope. At night 
in their little hammocks (swung side by side) 
the soldier and the scoundrel dozed from time 
to time. Both were on guard. No word of quar- 
rel had yet been uttered, though cold aversion 
reigned between them, while toiling under a 
blinding tropic sun, or dragging the almost fall- 
ing mules over stony ridges. 

Hope, (cowed by the fact that Seymour never 
left him beyond a five pace distance) silently re- 
solved: “I must wait for more help! After 
Arinal, he is mine!” Even this crafty scoundrel 
did not find the gold he had hoped for. Sey- 
mour’s possessions were however ample to tem- 
porarily enrich his slayer, and enable him to 
leave the land. Adrian Hope realized that his 
sly schemes had all failed, and that he might 
even be bitterly pursued by powerful enemies, 
who would resent this cold blooded and useless 
swindle. 

In the old mud adobe hovel, where the Al- 
calde of Arinal lived, Seymour threw himself on 
a hammock, determined to rest, yet watch. For 


THE PASSING SHOJV 


23 


two months he had had no letter from friend or 
wife. His valuable time was lost and his health 
was now shattered by the terrible sun “Guarro,” 
or incipient fever of Honduras. Seymour was 
now coldly desperate. 

The natives who accompanied the party to 
the interior, had all been artfully scattered. 
Ramon Padilla, (thief and spy) had been selected 
by Hope to guide the two on their return. 
Walter Seymour, — resting thankfully once more 
under the poor shade of even a thatched roof — 
revolved two points in his favor. One was, his 
concealed knowledge of Spanish, and the other, 
Hope’s evident personal fear. For Seymour knew 
that Hope felt that (unless victorious by sur- 
prise) he must join his victim on a trip “over 
the dark river. ” Open attack was too dangerous. 

“If I could only get one or two decent men 
here,” thought Seymour. Alas! There was not 
an American, or a respectable foreigner within 
two hundred miles. 

“I will have to rest by day, watch by night, 
and get a wink now and then in the saddle. 
Can I last it out for ten days?” Seymour was 
very gloomy. The presence of some decent 


24 


THE PASSING SHOW 


humble villagers at Arinal would probably pre- 
vent any open violence at that place. 

Lazy Hope objected not to a rest of a day and 
a half. Seymour quietly ate with the dirty circle 
of mestizos, drinking only water from the earthen 
crock common to all. Hope, fearing some overt 
act which might cause Seymour to throw him- 
self openly on the official protection of the Al- 
calde, guarded a watchful silence. Seymour 
checked off the various articles left in store, in- 
cluding the fateful coveted boxes. All the 
“prohibited goods” had been “passed” into the 
country unopened, to avoid custom house confis- 
cation. A few dollars effected that. 

“We will have to have more mules for those 
goods,” sullenly said Hope, as the first afternoon 
darkened to a night of danger. 

“All right !” said Seymour, “you get them !” 
“But we must have money,” Hope urged. Sey- 
mour, whose depleted saddle-bags now contained 
only forty-seven Mexican silver dollars, said 
sharply: “All right! I'll pay you at Truxillo!” 
His drafts were there! 

Hope was nonplussed. Seymour lay smiling, 
watching through clouds of pipe smoke. 


The passing show 


25 


Hope and the Alcalde conferred and wondered 
what the outcome would be. Even the Hon- 
duranean has a pride in being faithful while in 
the employ of the stranger. “If I can get two 
or three decent muleteers here they may wish to 
see the ocean town of Truxillo, and stimulated 
by reward, guide me safely there,” the American 
concluded. Seymour sauntered out to cogitate 
alone in the blazing sunlight. 

Keeping his eye fixed on the doubtful Alcalde, 
and the known rogue, he was careful to let no 
one approach him too closely. He waited until 
Hope shambled out after a twenty minutes’ con- 
ference with his comrade. 

“I can get the goods taken on a half day's 
march toward Olanchito, and I have a letter 
from the Alcalde for fresh mules at ‘Chorrera 
Rancho,’ between here and Olanchito,” said he. 
“The Alcalde’s mules must come back from 
Chorrera.” 

“Then we only make half a day’s march to- 
morrow?” Seymour rejoined. 

“That’s it!” said Hope. 

“It’s not satisfactory!” Seymour remarked, 
decidedly. “I will not leave here!” 


26 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


“All right!” said Hope, “I will then take my 
own riding mule and push on alone.” 

They parted without a word. Seymour 
moodily re-entered the now darkened house. 
The shades of evening were gathering outside 
and he dared not longer linger there. He might 
be surprised. “I will keep near Hope where I 
can fix him anyway!” resolved the refreshed and 
desperate man. 

If ever Walter Seymour prayed for his wits, it 
was when he entered the low door of that adobe. 
“I suppose they’ll try it on here. Well! I’ll 
get Hope anyway. It’s my last chance.” Around 
the table, he moodily munched a little jerked beef, 
black coffee, and cassava, which wooden fibred 
bread served as a meal. The Alcalde with voluble 
Castilian politeness, explained the necessity of 
the scheme proposed by Hope. Hope guarded 
a stubborn silence. 

“All right!” said Seymour in English, “Tell 
him I’ll go on in the morning !” Hope interpreted 
the remark. Several frowsy women and babes 
of all ages crowded the room where five or six 
hammocks hung on the walls, ready for slinging. 

The centipede, snake*, and tarantula were thus 


THE PASSING SHOW 


27 


foiled, temporarily, by a Mahomet like suspen- 
sion between ceiling and floor. Seymour — 
busied with his pipe — dozed while the motley 
throng filled the one room with open doors, 
which was the whole house, save two small 
chambers at one end; where in one an old 
woman, sick to death, lay wheezing in the last 
gasps. In the other, an assortment of babes 
and children of both sexes lay around on mangy 
rawhides spread on the floor. The stifling heat 
choked friend and foe. 

“Wake me at dawn!” said Seymour. Hope 
merely nodded. In an hour all was silent. One 
light in the sick woman’s mud walled chamber, 
cast a faint gleam through the room, where wild 
hogs, and wilder dogs, roamed at will. 

Tied to the rough table leg, two game Spanish 
cocks kept up a volunteered battle late into the 
night. Hope in his hammock lay fully dressed, 
counterfeiting sleep. Seymour, weapons at hand, 
kept a discreet silence, praying that he might 
not fall asleep before dawn. 

In two or three hours, several dark, shrouded 
forms, quietly slipped out of the back rooms. 
Seymour lay quietly. 


28 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


It was the women leaving. 

“Ah! it’s coming — to-night!” the soldier 
wearily said to himself. His fighting blood was 
up. 

“There’s no better time than when a man 
is half mad, to battle for his life— yet— my wife !” 
He dozed on, until a sudden movement of Hope 
in his hammock awoke him. 

In the two open doors of the hovel were stand- 
ing four half-naked men, each with a machete 
girded on. 

“What’s wanted?” said Seymour, springing 
up pistol in hand. 

“Be quiet!” grumbled Hope, “this is their 
way.” “All right !” cheerfully remarked Seymour, 
as he swung out of his hammock and seated him- 
self against the solid wall, lighting his pipe. 

“What’s the matter?” Hope queried. “This 
is a custom of the country. No one locks a 
door. The climate is too hot.” 

“Very bad custom! Very impolite!” Sey- 
mour remarked. 

In a moment the Alcalde — rolling out of his 
hammock — was whispering in his mongrel Span- 
ish to Hope. 


THE PASSING SHOW 


20 


“What does he say?” sternly said Seymour. 

“Those men were only some men going out to 
hunt for stray cattle. Don’t make a row here!” 
Hope retorted with insolence. 

“It’s half past three now,” said Seymour, “in 
an hour and a half, we’ll be on our way. I 
don’t care to sleep any more.” 

“Then I’ll get up too!” said the lazy villain. 

“Suit yourself!” replied Seymour. 

The Alcalde and Hope, with a bottle of native 
rum, made merry at the little wooden table, 
while the four or five other hammock denizens 
snored in unison. The Alcalde offered the gen- 
erous and fiery fluid. 

“Thanks! No!” said Seymour. “I’m on 
duty,” he thought. Neither of the unarmed 
scoundrels dared leave the room. Seymour — 
now thoroughly awake — watched the precious 
pair. 

At last a clear thought, born of Apache dodg- 
ing and the strange lore of the Plains, flashed 
over Seymour’s brain. There is a self-protec- 
tive action of mind, nerve, and body in deadly 
peril. His nerves were thrilling! 

“They have sent these fellows on ahead to 


30 


THE PASSING SHOW 


waylay me; for when the goods are loaded, and 
I am officially gone, they can act at once.” 

In Seymour’s baggage left behind at Arinal, 
was a magnificent English gun, packed in an 
oblong case. The right barrel was a twelve- 
bore shot gun, and the left a half-inch rifle, good 
at five hundred yards. Carelessly unlocking this 
case, Seymour put it together and loaded it; 
slipping a dozen ball cartridges for the left, and 
buckshot for the right bore, in his canvas shooting 
coat. He blessed the London lock, which had 
defied everything but open destruction. Placing 
the loaded gun behind him, Seymour deliberately 
began to count numbers to keep from sleeping. 
Twice did he turn one thousand before the pair 
of rogues had finished their work. Hope was 
inscribing a letter. 

At nine hundred, of the third thousand, a 
sleazy cotton-gowned thing — in the semblance of 
woman,— placed solemnly some “frijoles,” stewed 
meat and coffee on the table. 

Seymour rubbed his eyes. There was coarse 
bread on the table. The woman had returned; 
yet no one had left the room. Swallowing a 
cup of coffee, and thrusting four or five rolls in 


THE PASSING SHOW 


31 


his shooting coat, Seymour calmly said, “I am 
ready!” For the faint flush of day was peeping 
in the east. 

“I think I’ll linger till it’s light enough to shoot 
— anyway,” thought Seymour. Refreshed with 
rest, he stood in front of the Alcalde and Hope, 
and with florid compliment, interpreted by Hope, 
paid a Hotel de Meurice price for the squalid en- 
tertainment. Strangely enough, the goods were 
blithely packed on several mules, and Seymour 
delaying till Hope was mounted, walked out of 
the hotel and, forty yards from any one, mounted 
his animal. In a moment he saw that the 
weakest and poorest mule had been saddled for 
him. Hope was on the best, 

“See here, Hope!” said Seymour, “You have 
got my mule! This one can’t carry me!” After 
a few words Seymour dismounted. “Get off that 
mule and have these saddles changed!” Hope 
caught the flash of Seymour’s eye. Strolling 
artlessly around, Seymour caught the expression, 
(in Spanish) from the Alcalde: “That’s all 
right; they’ll fix him at the river! Send Jos& 
back and I will come to you. Be careful! He 
is dangerous!” 


32 


THE PASSING SHOW 


Neither villain knew that Seymour had taken 
quiet notes by compass and aneroid of the road; 
which he had measured the ten days between 
Arinal and Truxillo, and that he was an amateur 
astronomer of some practical experience. 

With a wave of the hand, Seymour, waiting 
till Hope and his myrmidons were well in ad- 
vance, rode fifty paces behind the train, leaving 
the Alcalde, hat in hand. 

For an hour the train plodded through a jungle 
where the huge orioles flashed from tree to tree; 
and enormous crimson and green macaws darted 
and wheeled around the highest kings of the 
forest. The armadillo scuttled away in scaly 
armor across the path, and, as morning dawned, 
the parrots, monkeys and wild turkeys mingled 
their screams and chatter with the snort of the 
wild boar. 

Several suspicious halts to arrange baggage 
gave Seymour a chance, twenty yards in rear, 
to drop a huge bird from a tree top with his rifle 
barrel, to the amazement of the train of villains. 
Quickly re-loading, Seymour watched the throng 
before him. The four night visitors had joined 
the cortege ! 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


33 


“We must be near the “Aguan,” Seymour 
mused; watching with cat-like eye, the knot 
before him. He had dropped all semblance of 
conversation with Hope. Soon the mighty, 
lonely tropic river was reached, and to Sey- 
mour’s delight, a long oblique, gravelly ford 
was seen, and clear banks, with room for a race 
and free movement. 

At five hundred yards from the ford, one of 
the leading foot-men, a tall, impudent, half naked 
wretch, brandishing a heavy machete sword, 
with which he had been idly lopping off stray 
branches, whooped loudly. From several hid- 
ing places on the bank, three or four similar 
scoundrels emerged. 

Quick as thought Seymour spurred his fresh 
mule alongside of Hope’s jaded animal. 

“What’s all this?” said he, sharply. 

“These men will help us over the ford !” sneak- 
ingly remarked Hope. 

“Sweethearts and wives !” thought Seymour, 
“I must keep out of these fellows’ grasp. 
Here’s the appointed place!” 

Swinging round his revolver belt to the front, 
he said to Hope: “Look out for your self! I’ll 
get over! Where’s the ford?” 


34 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


“There !” said Hope, with a curious smile, as 
several of the natives began to force the laden 
mules in, and dragged them over. Seymour 
was near enough to Hope to see the yellow 
gleam of his dirty tiger-eyes. 

“Go in!” said Hope, as there was no, excuse to 
linger. 

“After you !” politely remarked Seymour. 
“They can’t shoot unless they hurt us both,” 
Seymour thought, and resolved to see Hope first 
in the river. 

With judgment, Seymour noted a bar quarter- 
ing the river below. When Hope was half way 
in, Seymour, pushing his well rested mule into 
the current, and balancing his gun across the 
saddle, straggled over to the other side, two 
hundred yards below the party. Frantic yells 
attested his change of plan. Seymour guiding 
easily his mule down stream, was on the strand, 
laughing and shaking his wet clothes, as the 
insolent wretch watching for him, brandishing a 
naked sword, ran down the beach. When 
within twenty yards, out came the Texas Lone 
Star revolver with an ominous click. 

“Halt!” rang out, as Seymour drew a bead on 


THE PASSING SHOlV 


35 


the would be assassin. The machete dropped, 
and the yellow tiger slunk away. 

“ What’s the matter?” howled Hope, as he 
forced his tired mule along the pebbly beach. 

“It means,” said Seymour, “that I can take 
care of myself! — You take this riffraff ahead in 
the road! I don’t know the way I don’t wish 
them to speak to me !” 

And Adrian Hope, with an ugly twitching 
between his shoulders, knew that five yards 
behind him, on a fresh animal, a desperate man 
rode, who had selected the spot where a forty- 
five calibre baH would do the most good. And 
onward the motley crew toiled under the growing 
daylight. Murder for once had missed its mark. 


PART II. 



AT BAY AT THE CHORRERA RANCH. 

THE MIDNIGHT FOREST. 

T he trail led away from the rocky shores of 
the broad Aguan River, and lost itself in a 
tangled steaming forest of logwood and cactus. 
Far bevjnd the low hills rose the mighty scarped 
summits of the Sierras of Honduras. Their 
gashed and seamed rocky sides were patched 
here and there with straggling stone-pines. The 
screaming parrots soon ceased their discordant 
cries. The sun, a great flaming yellow disk, 
leaped over the far mountain ridge, and the 
breath of morning fluttered faint and low. Dry 
and dusty was the path, and even the mailed 
lizards crawled beneath the poisonous vines, and 
panted idly in the shade. 

36 


THE PASSING SHOW 37 

Wearily crawled on the little caravan. Pa- 
dilla, — villain and spy — muttered a curse now 
and then, as he replaced a lost sandal. The 
pack mules nodded and swayed under the heavy 
loads. At Padilla’s side marched the “mozos” 
from Arinal, one, the murderous bearer of the 
fateful letter, now and then flicking off the head 
of a weed with his naked machete, and scowling 
at the tall form of Seymour, riding behind. 
Hope — ignorant of Seymour’s knowledge of the 
full design — lolled upon his mule in sullen 
silence. What dreams of future villainy, what 
memories of past deeds, lurked in the tangled 
brain warp of that wicked bullet head. 

Now and then, without a word, he extended 
a water canteen to his silent companion, who 
kept two or three yards in Hope’s rear. Sey- 
mour’s mind reverted to his old jaunts over the 
plains of Arizona, to the lonely rides on the 
yellow sands of the Sahara, and weary dragging 
marches over the Bad Lands of Texas. The 
flaming, scorching sunbeams parched the ground, 
and rose in shimmering reflection from the pow- 
dery sand. It was with the utmost exertion that 
Seymour kept awake. Even the knowledge of 


38 


THE PASSING SHOW 


imminent danger failed to drive away the deadly 
fatigue born of excitement and a sleepless night. 
Pipe in mouth — with the trusty Lone Star re- 
volver still slipped well to the front — he noted 
every bend of the trail, now almost forest hid- 
den, every land mark, and mentally revolved a 
plan of escape if suddenly attacked. Bitterly, 
bitterly did he rue the separation from his angry 
comrades. To reach Olanchito twenty-five miles 
away, if pursued by numbers, seemed to offer 
superhuman obstacles. No water attainable, and 
an unknown road, with a riding animal not able 
to pass a walk. The jaded mule had made great 
exertions in swimming the river, and already 
showed signs of fatigue. Every half hour the 
black browed rogues in front had to re-make the 
packs of the baggage animals. Seymour kept 
steadily in the rear, with his eye on the rounded 
shoulders of Hope, wondering if some present 
crisis would make that villain’s back a target. 

In the brief halts from hour to hour a few sullen 
words were interchanged. The tropical morning 
wore on. Suspicion brooded. Every member 
of the party seemed to be on the alert. The 
silence was unbroken, and the blinding heat 


THE PASSING SHOW 


39 


waves skimmed over the far mountain tops. 
Not a lurking animal darted across the path. 
Here and there the whitening skeletons of cattle 
— dead of drouth, or killed by the jaguars — lay 
near the path. The mental results of Seymour’s 
road watching seemed to develop that the party 
had gone north-east of the telegraph road to 
Coyole^s Station, on the Olanchito road, at least 
six or eight miles. The undergrowth grew 
heavier and denser, closing all from sight. Here 
and there a green tree showed the near approach 
to water somewhere, and blind cattle trails inter- 
sected the main path. 

Seymour noted the trend of the mountain range, 
when occasional openings gave a glimpse, and 
fixed in his mind a far distant peak at whose 
foot lay Olanchito, the city of refflge, a telegraph 
station and military post being there. It flashed 
over his mind that the local Indian Catholic 
Priest, Cura Sanchez, might be honest and then, 
that a letter from good Father Raymond of New 
Orleans, — the well known Jesuit — was in the little 
leathern case around his neck. Its brief Latin 
phrases, spoke to every priest in the world! 

Deeper and gloomier grew the tangle of vines, 


40 


THE PASSING SHOJV 


and greener yet the trees, while a few straggling 
cattle showed the near approach to some ranch 
station. 

“It’s all up! ’’said Seymour to himself. “I’ll 
never get out of this death trap;” but with bitter- 
ness, he thought, “I’m good for Hope, and one 
or two more.” His eye fastened with cold deter- 
mination on the form of Adrian Hope, jogging 
along, dull and inert in the lead. “I’m all right 
when awake! But God knows, if I can hold out 
till I reach Olanchito without sleep?” sadly 
thought Seymour. It was clear that as noon 
was approaching, the jaded animals could not 
be pushed on to Olanchito that night ; equally 
clear, that if attacked by men on horseback, 
the wearied mule could not make any headway, 
and he would f#ll an easy victim to the lasso ! 
One desperate thought came to the tired man, — 
“I’ll keep quiet, and if I can get into that 
jungle and stand them off at bay, I am as good 
as any of them with my old frontier six shoot- 
er, and forty cartridges in the belt. 

But how, when, where, to make a slip away? 
Any moment might bring on a sudden quarrel — 
any turn of the path show a deadly ambush! 


THE PASSING SHOW 


41 


Seymour thought long and tenderly of those 
dear eyes far away, looking for his return, and 
deep down in his heart arose the anglo saxon 
protest against cowardice, and a burning wish 
for fair play for a few moments. 

Even roads to the Chorrera Ranch come to an 
end, and near noon an abrupt turn of the trail 
led to an opening in the bushes of about a hun- 
dred yards in diameter. A long adobe single 
story hut, heavily thatched, was in the clearing, 
with a broad porch around its two sides. In 
the front was a corral and a small cow pen near 
the thick timber with its tangled poisonous un- 
dergrowth only opened by cattle trails. A wel- 
come crystal spring moistened the roots of half 
a dozen willows, and served to slake the thirst 
of the lank cattle and scruffy horses standing 
near. In the rear a few straw huts were scat- 
tered, and behind the main house was an adobe 
kitchen and a rude dome of clay, serving as 
a primitive bake oven. 

“There’s Chorrera!” said Hope, gruffly, not 
even turning his head. Seymour made no reply, 
as the mules hastened up to the door, eager to 
be relieved of their burdens animate or inanim- 


42 


THE PASSING SHOW 


ate. Seymour mentally took his bearings as 
follows: — “Arinal distant eighteen miles due 
South West,— Olanchito, distant say twenty to 
twenty-five miles South East, — Coy oles, abreast, 
on the other side of the telegraph road, which 
was from six to eight miles South, — through the 
pathless forest, here almost impassable.” Sey- 
mour thanked God mentally for the knowledge 
of the road gained in the rough survey coming 
up, and as he swung himself out of the saddle, 
made a vow to keep away from all the party, 
and control the emotions raging in his breast. 

Heat, fatigue, thirst and hunger had done 
their work. He staggered as he strode under the 
shade of the porch. Two or three half naked 
children were playing with some mangy dogs on 
the clay floor of the hovel. Pigs and chickens 
wandered in and out, and a few cattle and horses 
were in the corrals. In sullen silence the 
muleteers unsaddled the pack mule and as usual, 
placed the whole gear and load in a corner of 
the hacienda building. Hope had gone into 
an inner room of the hut, and low murmurs 
in Spanish showed that a conversation was “en 
train.” Crouching in a corner was an old hag 


THE PASSING SHOW 


43 


with beaming malicious eyes, who glared at the 
“Yankee,” and grunted hoarsely in response to 
the usual “Buenas Dias! Senora!” The guide, 
Padilla, unsaddled Hope’s mule, and after slaking 
his own thirst, lay down on an outspread hide 
in front of the house on the ground, pulling his 
hat over his eyes. 

He feigned sleep, and lay like an alligator 
watching his prey. With wearied and trembling 
fingers, Seymour unsaddled his mule, and care- 
fully deposited his saddle in a corner, turning 
the animal loose. Slipping his hunting knife in 
his capacious coat, and feeling the pistol well 
loose in the holster, he walked to the spring and 
drank of the clear cool water under the shade 
of the willows. He took his gun to pieces, lock- 
ing it and abstracting all the cartridges. A 
brief survey of the whole ranch showed him he 
was in a trap. “No thoroughfare” was written 
on every wall. Beyond, rose the slopes of the 
grim Sierras, — west was the dense jungle infest- 
ted with every lurking terror, — and the enemy 
at Arinal in garrison. South was the more than 
doubtful station of Coyoles, the outlying pickets 
of the Arinal detachment of bandits. The man 


44 


THE PASSING SHOW 


who missed death at Arinal, met it at Chorrera 
or Coyoles. A brooding silence haunted the 
den, and slowly Seymour sauntered into the 
house to face his doom, if there the Fates await- 
ed him ! 

It is said we have a premonitory shiver when 
the unknown death reaches its grim hand out for 
us. It was with a feeling he could not shake 
off that the ex-officer crossed this fatal thresh- 
old. He had seen Hope arouse the sleeping 
guide, who had lazily swung the two hammocks 
in the main room, and Seymour noticed that his 
own was hung to the side beams of the house, 
in a direct line with the middle of the front and 
back open doors; while Hope’s was on the 
other side of the room in the shade. 

Seymour noted that his companion introduced 
him to the old gray haired master of the Chor- 
rera, as “Don Gualtier,” and did not give his last 
name. A middle aged woman and several chil- 
dren — all filthy and half naked — crowded out 
to have a look at “El Gringo.” Gregorio 
Calvera, the ranchero, was a villainous looking 
man of sixty, who glowered at the tall Amer- 
ican as he pointed to a rawhide covered seat. 


THE PASSING SHOW 


45 


Hope lay down in his hammock, without a word, 
and commenced a conversation with Calvera, 
who held an open letter in his hand. It was 
the fatal missive from Arinal, dooming the 
“Americano” to a death, either by stratagem or 
open violence. 

Rage filled Seymour’s heart at the thought of 
the dear ones far away beyond the sparkling 
sunlit waters of the Caribbean Sea. The old 
pirate haunt where murder ran riot for a hundred 
years, and every green island smiling under 
God’s sunlight had its tales of blood and woe. 
Would he too leave his bones in this trackless 
forest ? Oh ! for one good old Irish sergeant 
of the Fifth cavalry and a half dozen troopers. 
Did any one ever come this way ? No ! Led 
away, betrayed, trapped, and buried in the wilds 
of a Honduranean forest, — death stared him in 
the face. As the cards were dealt, but one last 
trick was at his disposal, and he mentally re- 
solved not to lose Hope from sight, and that on 
the first sign of violence, the Lone Star revolver 
should end that smug villain’s career. As Sey- 
mour looked around the squalid hut, he noted 
a small back room with no furniture. In the 


46 


THE PASSING SHOW 


main hut, a bed with curtains stood against the 
farther wall, and opposite, between his ham- 
mock and the mud wall, a square bedstead cov- 
ered with a tightened rawhide. In a corner, a 
water jar, and a few benches around the room 
completed the simple household goods of the 
rich ranchero; while strange to say, a little 
picture of the Blessed Virgin smiled down from 
another corner, in a tawdry gilt frame. 

As he surveyed the interior and noted a bevy 
of women chattering and lolling in the detached 
hut in rear, which was the kitchen, it flashed 
upon his quick perceptions that his hammock 
had been artfully swung in the open doors ap- 
parently to give air but really to allow a range 
for a shot from front to rear, or a quick rush 
from either door. He smiled grimly as he 
noted this, and quietly decided to occupy the 
rawhide couch at the side, out of the direct 
range. Pulling off his heavy cavalry boots, — 
companions of many a hunting trip, — he put on 
a light pair of shoes, carried in his saddlebags, 
as a reserve, and calmly lighting his pipe, took a 
drink from the calabash in the corner, sitting 
down carelessly on the couch. 


THE PASSING SHOW 


47 


Hope had ceased his low conversation, and 
the words “mules” — “American” — “journey,” 
and other remarks indicated the general drift 
of the colloquy, which ended in old Calvera’s 
wandering off alone to the corral, where the 
sword carrying scoundrel from Arinal, had a 
council with him. Seymour felt that Hope was 
keenly watching him from his half closed eyelids, 
and schooled his too expressive face to apparent 
indifference. The silence was broken at last by 
Hope: 

“Don’t you know it’s an insult to a Spaniard 
to keep your arms on in his house?” said the 
crafty scoundrel. “All right!” muttered Sey- 
mour, as he unbuckled his frontier belt and laid 
his revolver — still in the sheath — and belt on 
the couch beside him. There was an ominous 
silence. Affecting an air of indifference he 
queried, “How about fresh mules?” “Well, 
I guess we can get them.” “Can we get out 
of this place to-night?” Seymour anxiously 
said. A cold gleam lit up Hope’s eye. “Are 
you in such a hurry? we might stay here for 
some time. r 

“I won’t stay ^ minute beyond daylight to- 


48 


THE PASSING SHOW 


morrow morning,” resolutely said the entrapped 
American, as he carelessly laid his hunting coat 
over the loaded revolver and cartridge belt, 
careful to place it so as to be able to snatch the 
friendly handle in a moment. His gun was now 
useless as he had taken away the stock joint 
and keys. A brooding silence was unbroken for 
a half an hour, save by the puffs of the pipe of 
Seymour, who was supplying the place of need- 
ed food by the traveler’s best friend “Tobacco.” 
How many weary hours of doubt, danger, and 
fatigue have been lightened by the King of 
Solace, the friendly weed! 

Keenly conscious of being watched, Seymour 
felt every faculty alert and determined “to piece 
the lion’s hide out with the fox’s skin” if brought 
face to face with a shameful death! 

“Do we eat to-day?” said he finally. Hope 
slowly arose and going out to the hovel in rear, 
came in with a few cold corn cakes and some 
boiled plantains on a plate. “There’ll be coffee 
soon for you,” said he, “I don’t want any!” 
Seymour noticed the cold curtness of the re- 
mark. Without a word, he took a couple of 
the “tortillas” and a plantain, furtively watching 


THE PASSING SHOW 


49 


Hope, and ate them leisurely, as he saw Hope 
had eaten of both before he had half finished his 
own. 

“Can it be I am to be poisoned” thought he. 
He did not dare decline, but when the old hag 
hobbled in with one cup of muddy black coffee, 
and a few dirty lumps of the native “dulce” sugar 
he thanked her, and placed the cup on the bed 
to cool. After a few moments he rose, and 
quietly turning his back towards the door, lifted 
the cup to his mouth, and slipping from his 
hands it fell and was shattered on the hard mud 
floor. 

“There goes my coffee,” said he as he noticed 
the slight start of Hope, while he vainly grasped 
for the falling vessel. “Don’t mind any more,” 
said Seymour. “It’s too hot for coffee any way.” 
He felt his own cheek burn as Hope’s malevo- 
lent eye was fixed on his. Silence reigned again. 
Seymour — pipe in mouth — again revolved plans 
for escape. His brain worked like a trip-ham- 
mer. Calvera came in, and pulling out an old 
Spanish book entered into an apparent low 
conference with the plotting bandit. Carelessly 
sauntering up and down around the corral — 


50 


THE PASSING SHOW 


sword on hip — the letter bearer of the Arinal 
Alcalde, uneasily watched the openings of the 
little trails leading from the ranch into the 
jungle. 

“What was in the Alcalde’s letter? Was it 
the directions for his murder?” Seymour’s keen 
eye caught the manoeuvre, and he decided that 
some re-inforcement was expected. Perhaps 
men armed with guns and revolvers, so rare in 
the interior. “If I could only find the trail to 
Olanchito,” said to himelf the imprisoned trav- 
eler, “I would know the general way out of this 
death trap. The trail towards Coyoles might aid 
me out.” Knowing Hope to be without fire- 
arms, and able to see that the half naked scoun- 
drel from Arinal, had only the sword, Seymour 
was relieved, as he knew Padilla, who was snor- 
ing among the dogs and hogs in front, had no 
formidable weapon. 

“I’ll stand them all off in the daylight, any 
way, unless they try long range on me.” He 
reflected that Hope — coward at heart — would 
give no signal for long range attack while in 
point blank reach of the revolver in the hands 
of a man who had dropped a deer at one hun- 


THE PASSING SHOW 


51 


dred and twenty yards, with that trusty “old 
timer” lying under the coat. “I’ll keep away 
from them and try and slip away, even if I have 
to hide in the forest! I may wander into 
Olanchito. But how to get away?” While 
thus ruminating, he saw a couple of swarthy 
Olancheros, well mounted, and on good horses, 
armed with naked machete swords only, ride in 
on the Arinal trail. 

“Ah,” said he, with a sinking heart, “this is 
Blucher, not Grouchy.” His heart throbbed 
quickly. He saw them halt and chatter with 
the outside guards, and with malicious grins and 
laughter, ride up to the back door and dismount, 
only tying their horses. They came in, and a 
few salutations passed between them and Calvera, 
while Hope seemed to know them by a subtle 
free-masonry of his own. The usual “good day” 
passed between Seymour and the visitors, who 
after a barbarous too familiar hobnobbing with 
the frowsy squalid women in the back huts, 
squatted down under the rear porch to play with 
a greasy pack of Spanish monte cards. 

Hope resumed his hammock, and Seymour 
endeavored to open a desultory talk — more 


52 


THE PASSING SHOW 


to avoid sleep than to keep up any appearance 
of friendship. From this inertness of Hope, 
the felt that the attack would be delayed till 
dark, or waited, for some apparent cause of 
quarrel. 

Seymour’s own hammock remained still 
empty, and Hope finally growled out: “Don’t 
you ever sleep ?” “I’m not tired,” was the pious 
falsehood of the American, now keenly alive to 
the imminent dangers. It was clear to see that 
the men outside were “on guard.” The two 
scoundrels on fresh horses were ready for action, 
and still Hope gave no menacing sign. The 
afternoon wore on; Seymour never quitted his 
position. About five o’clock as the flaming sun 
was sinking to the west, a clatter of hoofs from 
the east announced a horseman. Up to the 
front door rode a bright, handsome man of thirty 
or thirty-five years of age, and dismounted; 
being eagerly surrounded by the women of the 
family. Coming in and courteously saluting, 
Seymour discovered him to be Don Felipe 
Gonzales, — a peripatetic physician from the in- 
terior — who, accustomed to travel on profession- 
al calls from ranch to ranch, was on his way back 


THE PASSING SHOW 


53 


from “San Pedro Sula” where he had been sum- 
moned to assist some local Esculapius in an op- 
eration. He looked honest and kindly. 

A scowling disappointment seemed to sit on 
Hope’s face, and the self constituted sentinel 
outside had a long and whispered conference with 
the monte players. Seymour felt hope rise 
within his heart. Should . the Doctor sleep 
there, he might at least get under way next day 
and have a fighting chance for a stand in the 
forest. The Doctor lay down on the bed across 
the room, and indulged in a siesta. In half an 
hour all were startled by sounds of pain and 
groans from the Doctor’s bed. Seymour found 
the new comer, who had been rapidly riding in 
the hot sun, in the agonies of a sudden convuls- 
ion of the coast fever. Hope and Calvera took 
immediate charge, and, with the aid of the 
women, the sufferer was divested of his upper 
raiment, and water jars were emptied in scores, 
by pouring a continuous stream on the back of 
the sufferer’s neck and spine. 

The whole mongrel throng crowded into the 
room. As dusk approached, the sick man re- 
gained some little self control, and lay in pain 


54 


THE PASSING SHOW 


faintly moaning, with half closed eyes. Seymour 
profited by the general excitement to slip out 
of the front door, buckling on his belt and slip- 
ping on his coat. Walking cautiously around the 
house, he smoked his pipe and watched the gath- 
ering shadows. Calvera had told him the mules 
for the morning would be • brought in, and fed 
when his boy returned from Coyoles, whither 
he had been sent on an errand, just after the 
party arrived. Pausing for a moment near the 
north-eastern corner of the house to light a 
match for his pipe, the prisoner of fortune 
heard low voices from around the corner under 
the shed. 

“We could do it now” said one of the loung- 
ing scoundrels. 

“No! wait till the Coyoles gang come in,” 
was the answer. “Well, I am afraid the Doctor 
will see the business.” Seymour blessed his 
knowledge of the tongue! — “Carajo! Juan! 
he’s too. sick to see anything.”, “Go ahead!” 
said another. 

“No! He can still see; he has his eyes open; 
and the Americano may make a big noise and 
shoot. He has got that cursed big revolver.” 


THE PASSING SHOW 


55 


“Pedro!” said one, “See the old man, and get 
some stuff given to the Senor Doctor to make 
him sleep good too.” Silence reigned among 
the scoundrels for a moment. Pedro shuffled 
away. 

“I have the way!” said one. Seymour listen- 
ed with a wildly beating heart. “When the 
Coyoles gang come in, we’ll just knock him on 
the back of the neck with a machete, and put 
him across a horse and take him to the Aguan 
River and throw him in. We can tell the 
Doctor he went along the road early, before day- 
break. He must soon sleep! He is tired! The 
rest can go over to Coyoles with all the stuff, and 
we divide it up there.” 

Seymour’s blood froze. Now was the critical 
moment! — “Juan, let’s go in and fix the Gringo 
now,” said one bold scoundrel. “No, I won’t! 
We want the other party, so as to get a horse 
to pack him over to the Aguan !” “I’m not going 
to walk there and back for any cursed Ameri- 
cano dead or alive.” “All right. Wait till its 
dark.” And the scoundrels calmly proceeded to 
talk over a division of the plunder. The watch, 
chain, jewelry, clothes, weapons, and whole outfit 


56 


THE PASSING SHOW 


were quietly parcelled out. They had noted 
all. 

Seymour — who could hear perfectly through 
the open railed grating at the end of the back 
porch — crept back around the front into the 
house. The deepening shadows closed around 
the house. Missing travelers on this road were 
not accounted for! 

Hope and Calvera still busied themselves 
around the sick man, and several lights had 
been brought in the room'; Seymour keenly 
eyed Hope and seemed to see a nervous ex- 
pectancy in his movements. After an hour, the 
stars were in the sky, and the haunting silence 
was still only broken by the groans of the sick 
man on the bed. The plan of attack seemed 
to be to await the arrival of the rest of the gang 
before coming to close quarters, as none of the 
gang seemed to have any fire arms. The wo- 
men went in and out, and the news of the “Cal- 
entura” had reached the two or three thatched 
hovels behind. Seymour leaned against the 
head of the bedstead, and now and then revolv- 
ed desperate schemes. All were vain. Streams 
of fire passed before his aching eyes, as he felt 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


57 


the iron trap closing down on him. in a few 
moments a young native girl of singular beauty 
entered the room. Delicate, ripely beautiful in 
form was she, with a face almost Grecian in its 
outline. She was an apparition to startle any 
one. 

A vision of loveliness in the wilds of barbarous 
Honduras! Passing out, she commenced to chat- 
ter with the three lurking wretches at the back 
door, who coarsely handled her as a plaything. 
With a sudden inspiration, Seymour stepped 
out on the front and regained his listening place. 
Horror! This was the counsel which fell from 
the lips of the beautiful girl, who had cast a 
long searching look at him as she passed through 
the room. “Why do you lug this big gringo over 
to the river when you get him fixed? Knock 
him on the head when he gets tired and sleeps 
and then throw him out to the wild hogs. Cut 
him up — they’ll eat him up clean ! We ’ll burn up 
the bones, and bury them. Go ahead!” The 
beauty was a wanton, and a fury! 

With chattering teeth Seymour crept back, 
and his parched palate alone caused him to go 
to the water jug and drink a long draft to cool 


58 


THE PASSING SHOW 


the mad fever raging now in his veins. He re- 
membered his past life — its scenes of varied 
joy and woe, storm and sunshine, battle and 
distant war trails on the Plains — a mother’s fond 
love — a father’s tenderness, all came back! 
Over his disordered fancy crowded glimpses of 
foreign travel — gay Paris, t glittering Vienna, 
cool jaunts in lovely Switzerland, and dreamy 
starlit nights on the Nile. Was he again at 
the “Mess,”and hearing the glasses clink, as 
the dear old boys “stood up in a row” and 
sang “Benny Havens, Oh!” 

Present danger quickly drove away the vis- 
ions. He dimly remembered some one had told 
him of a lovely girl used as a bait to lure wan- 
derers to their death at some dangerous ranch 
on this mountain road. Many a well appear- 
ing traveller — even of native blood — had been 
led into the net, by lingering to flirt with the 
Wild Rose of Olanchito! But — quick — Great 
God! Action! Now or never! For home! 
For Life! For wife and the dear child far away 
over the ocean foam! The die was cast! 

Moving carelessly to the front door from the 
corner where the water jar stood, Seymour lit 


THE PASSING SHOW 


59 


his pipe slowly at the door. Stepping out into 
the deepening gloom, he heard some one say 
quickly, “He is going way !” 

Hope sat by the sick man’s bedside, and Calvera 
watched with him the invalid moaning unceas- 
ingly, and shifting in the bed. “No! you fool! 
he’s only going out for a moment, wait,” said 
another. The wretches knew not how many weary 
months serving in Texas and Arizona had quick- 
ened a naturally keen aptness at Spanish; and 
if Hope heard at all, he was either too exhaust- 
ed, or as a coward preferred the inevitable strug- 
gle to take place outside. Even with a villain, 
old and tried in many a ghastly scene, the ir- 
resolution of the moment tells. Seymour strode 
lazily towards the corrals. Turning his head 
for the last time, perhaps, to the friendly North 
Star, shining now high in the heavens, here and 
there patched with a dark cloud, he quickly 
ranged two or three stars in front, and noted 
the far distant lowering peak at whose foot lay 
his haven, Olanchito. There was a garrison 
and a telegraph. Some respectable people were 
residents. It would at least be open murder, 
there. Could he make that trip? “Yes!” he 


60 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


swore with set teeth as he turned the corral 
corner and plunged swiftly into the tangled wild 
jungle, dense and dark, where root and vine, 
mudhole and decayed branch, fallen logs, and 
poisoned vines matted themselves into a confu- 
s : on of snares. 

Drawing his revolver, he cocked it and dashed 
away. Driven ahead by his mad thoughts — 
goaded by the wild hope of freedom, he strode 
swiftly on! 

No outcry yet, no yells, all was silent. After 
two or three hundred yards, he came on a path 
and swiftly and mechanically followed it. Sud- 
denly he ran against a horse, on whose back a 
dark form sat. Great God! It was the boy 
returning from Coyoles. All is lost! “Senor 
Americano!” exclaimed the lad, as he saw the 
tall form, and the white sun helmet told the 
story. “Where you go?” “Only for a little 
coolness!” “Ah! the river is three leagues 
away,” said the boy as he put spurs to his horse 
and dashed off towards the ranch. The re- 
volver was ready in Seymour’s hands, but the left 
hand held it, and the trusty knife was ready 
in the right, had the boy attempted an outcry. 


F 


THE PASSING SHOJV 61 

W I cant kill a boy!” said he, as he plunged 
forward. “Better for both!” Quick as a flash, 
Seymour turned at right angles — his old survey- 
ing knowledge being his main stay in the idea 
to make a right angled offset, and then go direct 
ahead. 

Great heavens! his strength was now failing! 
Onward he drove. The close dry tropic night 
parched his lips. His throat was burning. A 
noise of frantic yells and calling, rose on the 
night. Dogs were barking in chorus, and con- 
fusion arose on the murky silent air. He must 
lie down. His heart beat like a trip hammer 
with the exertion. Down in the tangled bushes 
he dropped, and panting lay there prone. His 
brain, acting like lightning, was quickened by the 
intense nerve tension and heart pulsations. If 
not found by the dogs, he was safe for a time off 
the trail. The hubbub and yells soon died 
away. Suddenly the heavens obscured, and 
thanks to a merciful God, a rattling peal of 
thunder opened a terrific tropical storm. 

The weary fugitive blessed God as he sheathed 
his revolver under his canvas hunting coat, 
and rising, fixed the direction which would in 


62 


THE PASSING SHOW 


six to nine miles take him to the telegraph road 
which was cut through the forest, thirty feet in 
width, and ran to the east about fourteen miles 
to Olanchito. It was six miles away. What 
mattered the storm? The pouring rain gave 
him strength, and water to drink. He deliber- 
ately filled his pith hat to cool his fevered lips, 
and set forward carefully, cutting a tall stick 
with his bowie knife. Now was the task before 
him at least defined. Cover and darkness had 
he, and he resolutely strode on, pushing aside 
the branches, and feeling before him for holes 
and gullies. Thankful for the darkness of that 
awful night, for the pouring storm, drenching 
yet refreshing him, and ever and again by the 
blue heat lightning flashes getting a glimpse of 
the woods in front. Accustomed to military 
marching, he knew he could not swerve very far 
from his course. The great point was to avoid 
reaching the robber nest at Coyoles by bearing 
to the right, and to leave the trail to Olanchito 
from the ranch well to the left; as this bent far 
away to the north-east, he felt safe. The two 
great problems then, were to husband his strength 
and divide his time so as to reach Olanchito be- 
fore daylight. 


THE PASSING SHOW 


63 


There — if ever he arrived — he would make a 
stand, and at least have witnesses of any per- 
sonal attack. It was eight o’clock when he en- 
tered the forest. His equipment, beyond knife 
and revolver was meagre. Canteen he had none; 
that was tied on Hope’s saddle. He had not 
dared to try to get it. The water holes filled by 
the storm remedied the difficulty. Sleep had 
been frightened from his weary eyes. As he 
strode on Seymour investigated his hunting coat 
pocket. A pipe, some tobacco in twist, a box 
of matches, and luckily in one game pocket, 
several pieces of the old dry bread, caught up at 
Arinal; forgotten till now. Moistening the 
crusts in the rain, he ate them; and fearing to 
light, or trying to light a match, he chewed 
some of the twist tobacco to keep awake. 

Onward, steadily onward he marched, careful 
not to lose breath, — an encounter with man or 
beast might come any moment, — keeping his 
revolver under his coat, and steadily moving on 
in the fearful storm, till he knew at last through 
long experience that he had placed at least four 
miles between him and the Ranch of Horrors. 

The storm moderated a little; across his path 


64 


THE PASSING SHOW 


now and then slipped dusky forms of animals, 
small and large. 

A band of cattle were scattered here and 
there, and their beaten paths made the walk- 
ing a little easier. Gradually his self-command 
returned, and although falling now and then, 
being tied with vines, and tripped with logs and 
tree roots, the soldierly instinct of old, told 
him he was making a good march. Would he 
do it? Ah, yes! his heart bounded when he 
thought of a dear one calmly sleeping far-away 
under friendly skies, who had closed her eyes 
that night — if alive — with a fond prayer for his 
safety. 

The cool rain freshened his drooping pulses, 
and on, on, ever, he trod. By and by came on 
him a horrible fear. Suppose he should pass the 
telegraph road and wander into the other murder 
pen at Coyoles? He prayed to God as he went, 
that he might be spared that last crowning mis- 
fortune. The rain ceased slowly. The heat light- 
ning flashes died away, and one by one the. stars 
came out. He paused from time to time; his 
nerves were steadier. He found again his old 
friend the North Star, and once or twice in a 


THE PASSING SHOJV 


65 


little opening could see, looming away to the east, 
the great peak over Olanchito. 

And now began a weird fantasy, born of 
fatigue. Awful shapes seemed to form them- 
selves and move across his path. Shadowy 
horrors would reach out and grasp at him. The 
nervous re-action was beginning to tell on him 
at last. Old scenes haunted him, and he found 
himself mechanically repeating treasured phrases, 
or talking to himself in a rambling way. 

The night grew clearer. The great white stars 
hung like gleaming jewels in the sky, now clear- 
ed by the storm. Poe’s strange lines came to 
him again and again: 

“And then as the night was senescent, 

“And the star dials pointed to morn." 

These words haunted his fevered brain. 

Then again the horrid fear of being hounded 
down. Marching, still marching — no telegraph 
line yet! Had he passed the road? “No! 
Thank God! at last!” he cried, as he saw before 
his tired eyes the poles with the one feeble wire 
strung, which would guide him to Olanchito. 

Fourteen miles of sodden road, and what am- 
bush, or pursuit? 


66 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


As the road was the only one cut in the whole 
region there was no possibility of mistake. 
Facing the south, and turning to the left, Olan- 
chito was dead ahead, in a nearly straight line, 
fourteen miles away. Seymour sat down by the 
road side on a falen tree, and reviewed the situ- 
ation. His flight of course gave no possibility 
of quarter, should he meet the bandits. If turned 
back on Arinal or Goyoles, a sure butchery 
awaited him. The bandits were now all alert. 
He knew he had been at once pursued; naturally 
on horseback. Perhaps the expected Coyoles com 
tingent had joined in the chase. Had they dogs? 
Yes but curs only. What was the nearest danger? 
Only one. That on the road ahead he might 
be waylaid. 

Seymour placed himself on the chase. What 
would he do were he the bandit chief? He 
would send a party quickly down the trail, and 
then divide it, and patrol the road back and 
forward. Then how to meet and baffle this 
new danger? Ah the old Indian trick: keep 
ahead on the road and lie down and listen. 
No one was behind him now probably. If 
they were deceived, thinking him still on the 


THE PASSING SHOW 


67 


oblique trail, they would ride on ahead to Olan- 
chito. Then he must watch for the returning 
pursuers. Suddenly a thought struck him. 
That white helmet, well, a little black mud 
cured that! 

So striding along in an open road, Seymour 
toiled manfully on, with revolver ready at belt, 
and a set indignation at his heart. His tactics 
were clear. If any one was met, he would dart 
into the jungle, and there turn and sell his life, 
if brought to bay. The grand old stars swept on, 
and the steady military tramp of the practiced 
soldier on the open road, told finally on the 
distance. Weary, leg weary, but free, steadily 
onward he plodded. Were there any houses 
along the road? He could not remember. The 
excitement of the night had chased away all 
memory of his route sketches for the time. 

Down, with strained ear in the muddy road, 
he dropped from time to time. Suddenly a sound 
of hoofs galloping behind in the splashy road. 

Quickly he dashed into the bushes; and with 
cocked pistol in hand, behind a tree, Seymour 
saw a mounted man tear by on the dead run, and 
heard the clatter of a sheathed machete sword. 


68 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


With beating heart he emerged, and followed on 
after the patrol. He determined on quick reflec- 
tion, that only one man had probably followed 
on behind. Could they really think that he would 
try to make Olanchito? Did they know, or 
divine the old soldier’s idea? “Quien sabe?” 

Night began to fade, and the hill beyond Olan- 1 
chito showed sharper and more distinct. Bravo! 

It was distant not more than six or eight miles 
now. As onward he plodded, the road, with 
but a few turns, was melting away under the de- j 
termined pace. After a little creek crossing a de- 
serted house was reached, with a collection of huts 
in rear. Did he remember it ? Seymour racked 
his mind, and stalked along. Suddenly four or 
five huge dogs rushed down the path, and made 
a wild attack and a ringing outcry. His heart 
leaped up in his throat. He did not dare to shoot 
until the last extremity. Seizing a club, lying by 
the road, he fled a few yards, and turning dealt 
the foremost a blow, which sent the pack howl- 
ing back. Onward, with quickened pulses he 
went, with new life, and the hints of morn com- 
menced to be unmistakable. By star glimmer 
he found it was between 1:30 and 2 A. M. 


THE PASSING SHOW 


69 


Carefully and fearfully watching front and rear, 
he forced his leaden feet to carry him along 
the road. One or two old straw huts hinted of 
the town within a few miles. He had gone, 
driven by sheer desperation, faint and weary — 
like a machne, ever over driven. The heavy 
revolver and belt chafed his wet and rain chilled 
body. Still for home, friends, and country, 
onward to baffle the hounds. Strange and won- 
derful, no returning scouts were on the road. 
They must have wearied in the storm and re- 
turned. Besides, had he not left all his prop- 
erty in their clutches at the Chorrera? Bah! 
What was property? Could he not send out a 
detachment of troops from Olanchito and beat 
them up? Such were the thoughts chasing 
across his brain. 

Suddenly, quick as a flash, across the road a 
horseman bore down on him machete in air. 
Shoving the pistol against the man as he stepped 
aside, Seymour pulled the trigger. With a wild 
yell, the man fell, as his frightened horse dash- 
ed madly into the forest, dragging the brute’s 
body with him. Seymour ran madly on for 
half an hour, skirting the forest shades in the half 


THE PASSING SHOW 


70 

light of the hour before dawn. Had the pursuer 
heard the dogs? The fugitive dared not keep the 
road for fear of other ambush. 

Leaving the road to the north, Seymour 
watched a chance, and bent his way around the 
low hills to the river bank on the east side of 
the village. With little difficulty he recognized 
the surroundings, and held his breath as he 
skirted along the silent river. He had no idea 
of the exact length of the path, but had now 
traveled seven hours, and at last the cut road 
was reached, and he crawled wearily up the 
river bank. He now stood behind the outer row 
of adobe houses, built around the Plaza of Olan- 
chito. A new dilemma awaited the wayfarer 
Dared he enter the town? Should he try to 
awake some one? It was three o’clock; should 
he lurk in the outskirts till morn? Sleep and 
fatigue as well as Ihunger now weighed him to 
the ground. 

Desperation seized him. Forward! So on- 
ward he strode into the east of the silent Plaza 
where the great bulk of an old Church of the 
Conquistadores loomed up before him. Care- 
fully he skirted the deserted Plaza; keeping in 


THE PASSING SHOW 


71 


rear of its surrounding streets. No sound — no 
one stirring, and now smaller objects were 
faintly discernible in the crepuscular light. 

To the old church he hied for sanctuary and 
to hide himself therein. He was safe there, if 
only sleep could be guarded against. The lane 
was turned and out strode Seymour, halting, 
limping and bruised, with torn and bleeding 
hands, and sank down at the foot of the great 
wooden cross in front of the Olanchito Church 
at a quarter of four o’clock. Thank God for 
a present escape. Thanks for temporary free- 
dom. Home and friends were thousands of 
miles away, yet here a refuge lay. A faint 
glimmer of light was in the church. Cautiously 
the fugitive approached the old carved mahog- 
any door and peered through a chink. 

Horror! He saw in the aisle a bier! It was 
black draped with a body in a catafalque. Some 
poor wretch ready for burial. Dim, oil fed 
tapers at its head and foot, shed a ghastly radi- 
ance; and the drowsy Indian sacristan had 
evidently deserted his charge and gone to sleep. 
A revulsion seized the tired man, who dragged 
his wearied bones into a recess behind the arches 


72 


THE PASSING SHOW 


of the old portal and sank down to sleep — pistol 
in hand — overcome with deadly fatigue and 
gnawing hunger. How long he slept he knew 
not. With a sudden sharp pain in his neck, 
he awoke. A huge soft form glided past his 
face, and the trickling red blood, proved that 
a giant blood sucking bat had fastened on his 
veins as he slept. He sprang up in mingled dis- 
gust and alarm! 

The grisly horror of the attack roused all his 
latent forces, and binding his handkerchief on his 
wounded neck, he walked and hobbled around 
for an hour or so in the silent Plaza arcades, 
pistol in hand. Birds were now twittering, and 
the woods sent out a confused chattering of ani- 
mal life. 

Seymour could now discern the Padre San- 
chez’s house next the crumbling old church, 
built by the grim Spaniards two hundred years 
ago, when Olanchito was a wonder of that ear- 
lier day. Would any one ever awake? Would 
the night be an eternity? Such were the haunt- 
ing questions of the now thoroughly shattered 
man. Did any of the guerillas lurk around the 
deserted streets? At last, a door opened on 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


73 


the west side of the Plaza; a man came out and 
gazed around, lazily snuffing the morning air. 
Seymour hastily approached and was not as- 
tonished to hear the man say: 

“Madre de Dios! Who are you; and where 
did you come from ?” His face, covered with 
mud — his torn garments — his bruised and bleed- 
ing hands — his clothes in tatters made the wan- 
derer look like a human wolf! Seymour ex- 
plained he had lost the way from his “Camp.” 
“And where was that?” With greatest caution 
the reply was made that he did not know just 
where. “When will the shops open? I am 
hungry!” said Seymour. “In an hour,” replied 
the man, who proved to be the Assistant Al- 
calde. 

“Senor Americano!” said he courteously, “I 
regret I can only give you a glass of aguadien- 
te.” The half famished traveller seized the glass, 
filled it to the brim, and drained it without ever 
tasting the fiery liquid, which coursed through his 
veins and gave him a new life. 

“The estanco will be open over there in half 
an hour, you can get then all you wish to eat.” 

Drowsily turning on his heel, the hospitable 
official went back to his slumbers. 


74 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


“Saved!” cried Seymour. Plodding over the 
Plaza he reached the door of the little “tienda” 
and steadily beating thereon, aroused a fright- 
ened store-keeper. Quick explanations caused 
a homely repast to be set out. Hard-boiled 
eggs, bread, and some meat cooked the day 
before, were washed down with aguadiente. 

With eager eyes, Seymour watched the Pad- 
re’s door. At six o’clock the black robed In- 
dian priest paced out to the church sacristy, and 
followed by a drowsy acolyte, read his brief mass 
to an audience of a few sleepy Indian women, 
and the thankful wanderer of the night. Waiting 
until the good Priest went out of the little side 
door to his house, with quick strides Seymour 
followed him, pushed open the half closed 
door, and throwing himself into a rude chair, 
before the astonished Padre, cried: “Safe at 
Last! Thank God!” He dropped his tired head 
upon his weary breast in the collapse of utter 
exhaustion. 

“Jesus Maria! Panchita!” cried the honest 
old Priest. “Get the strange Americano to bed! 
He has the jungle fever.” 




FINDING AN AMERICAN. 


SIBERIA. 


1885. 


ne of the peculiar impressions, resulting from 



V_>/the ceaseless streams of humanity crowding 
the busy streets of great New York, and forcibly 
i pressed upon the tone and minds of helpless 
passers by, is the seeming fact that there are 
too many Americans in some places, for general 
comfort. The thinning down of the great urban 
community would be a God-send, at times. From 
the maximum of crush, like that in our arterial 
thoroughfare Broadway, we, gaining distance, 
by travel approach the desired minimum, where 
the genus Yankee is reduced to the last possible 
limit of one; for we jump off the mathematical 
ladder into nether space, when we pass Zero. 


75 


76 


THE PASSING SHOW 


To find a budding civilization, where the ‘‘total 
American census” is a unit, is an interesting pri- 
mal fact. There is so much to build upon. 

I suppose it was because I was destined to 
discover this irreducible community, that I wan- 
dered, in 1885, from San Francisco toVladivos- 
tock, Siberia. Twenty-one days of ploughing 
the lovely Pacific, on the stout old “Oceanic,” 
meeting neither a single sail, nor any mark of 
humanity, was lonesome to an exasperating de- 
gree. A terrific cyclone off the Japanese coast, 
thrilled all with awe, and caused us to hail snow- 
capped Fusiyama as a blessed sight. Seven days 
spent afterward threading the lovely archipelago 
of the fairy Inland Sea, was a dream of delight. 
We revelled in the rarest vistas of sea, sky, and 
picturesque island-fringed shores. No fresher 
beauty varies around on God’s footstool, than 
this land-locked voyage from Yokahama to 
Nagasaki will disclose. Beautiful Kobe, roman- 
tic Kioto, and the gallant, warlike heights of 
storied Simoneseki, are a panorama of Mother 
Earth’s rarest pictures. The crested heights 
of Simoneseki straits were wet with heroic blood, 
that lovely day in the by-gone “sixties,” when 


THE PASSING SHOW 


77 


the proud Prince of Satsuma, alone with his chi v- 
alric loyal retainers, battled a whole day with the 
allied fleet of four great, grasping, and insolent 
“ Christian” nations. Poor Christianity indeed! 
replacing the meek, brotherly, pleading words 
of a blessed Savior, by hot shot, rifle shell, and 
every devil’s missive, death laden. They poured 
these into the manly ranks of a simple, spirited 
people, bravely defending their native shores, 
in sight of their modest, peaceful homes. 

Thus thought I, as we dipped the flag, in 
courtesy, passing the old battle ground. We 
were on the “Hiroshima-Maru” — formerly the 
“Golden Age,” the last of the old American 
built side-wheelers, now in Eastern seas. So 
thought the dear one at my side, while we swept 
out into the starry night, as the. glittering sun 
sank in glory under the purple horizon. We 
glided past the almost impregnable rocky gates 
of the old Japanese stronghold, leaving an earthly 
paradise behind us. 

Gayly we ploughed over sparkling phosphor- 
escent seas, lit up with hundreds of little lamps, 
borne by those frail fishing boats, mere shells, 
in which the brave Japanese toss the livelong 


78 


THE PASSING SHOW 


night on these all too-treacherous waters. The 
old sword bearers, the matchless warrior chival- 
ry of Japan, haye joined in death their martial 
ancestors. Rude practical progress, and the 
greed of the dollar, have swept away forever the 
legendary, time-honored, curiously beautiful 
feudal system of the “Land of the Rising Sun.” 

Old customs, picturesque dress, epic song, na- 
tional festivals, and much of their unconquerable 
native spirit, were crushed by the advent of 
“Dollar Hunting,” your only modern game, sir! 
The antique castles of the Daimios are crumbling 
away. The lithe, brown-eyed, two-sworded, 
knightly soldiers have vanished. Adieu to Honor 
and old-time Romance! Enter the “Man of 
Business,” whose insatiable “trade” devours the 
slow ripened beauties of the hallowed, art-loving, 
hero-worshipping, days of old, everywhere. 

Matchless sword and curious dagger, priceless 
vase, and peerless cabinet, fretted gold orna- 
ment, crystal curios, chiselled silver master 
pieces, and classic paintings, world famous gold 
and silver embroidery, and clear cut bronzes 
which put the triumphs of the outer world to 
shame, have been scattered over heedless utili- 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


70 


tarian America and Europe. Greasy speculators, 
cranky collectors, and chaffering auctioneers, 
paw over the harvest of a thousand years of 
Japanese artistic skill, and deftly expressed 
beauty-worship. 

Never, never was a land so rifled, in a few 
years, of all its time honored, expressive treas- 
ures. Silent temples yawn in their ghostly quiet- 
ness. The ruined tower, deserted garden, and 
lonely hall, tell the sad story: “The old order 
changeth, giving place unto the new?” “Cui 
Bono?” 

Ample time had I to muse over these and 
other dreamy thoughts, clinging like fresh vines 
to the tombs of a nation’s great past. We 
skirted the bold and romantic shores, till our 
anchor was dropped in the beautiful land-locked 
harbor of Nagasaki. There, we were to take 
ship for Siberia, — a voyage of eight days more, 
to skirt the wild, rude, inhospitable shores of 
harsh, brutal Corea, with Siberia as an objective 
point, — the Corean peninsula being wildly mis- 
named “Land of the Morning Calm.” 

Forty-three days in all needed for the voyage 
from San Francisco to Vladivostock, caused me 


80 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


to wonder if a slender, yet attractive business 
chance, would repay by final success, the dan- 
gers of three separate sea voyages. Braving 
typhoon, and the dreaded cholera, and passing 
through the absurd intricacies of Japanese, Co- 
rean, and Siberian, fantastic, autocratic, official 
red tape, we slowly moved on. 

I was not then aware that I would have the 
crowning joy of “Finding an American,” and 
putting him under the “Stars and Stripes” once 
more. No achievement of my chequered career 
fills me with more pride, than this remarkable 
feat. He was not found, an embryo man, like 
Moses; but in a high muscular state of develop- 
ment, fit for daily practical use and a consider- 
able amount of assorted deviltry. In fact I have 
sometimes wondered if it were not better I had 
left my precious “find” to rot out the rest of his 
life (he was only twenty-four), in the coal mines 
of Saghalien, under the ready rifles of a not too 
humanitarian Russian guard, quite apt at the 
trigger. The reader shall judge! My bosom 
still thrills with the pride of finding him, and he 
is now a free agent. A very free agent! I dis- 
claim further moral responsibility, as the flag of 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


81 


his native land, covers and hides his delinquen- 
cies, with those of other lively fellow citizens. 
“To our muttons !” as the witty Gaul, airily re- 
marks. 

Happy days were those spent in picturesque 
Nagasaki. Jolly friends were the warm-hearted 
members of the Consular Corps; whose luxurious 
official homes, nestle among the crags on the 
eastern shore. The flags of all civilized nations 
proudly float from the staffs, as Nagasaki is an 
“open port,” and of enormous commerce. A great 
development of trade among the three thousand 
islands of the Japanese group, has called for 
every kind of steam craft, from the little launch 
of twenty feet, up to the stately steel liner of 
five thousand tons; all under the white flag, with 
the crimson ball in the center. 

The cute Japs have wisely declined to sell 
land, or give away franchises to the grasping 
foreigner. Thousands of rough-built, wooden 
junks, brave the beautiful but uncertain waters 
of these classic shores. Myriads of fishing 
boats, with a single oblong sail, — parti-colored 
in three vertical stripes, — flit out silently to their 
never-ceasing fishing before the dawn. The day 




/ 

82 THE PASSING SHOW 

break is made weird by the gliding out to sea of 
these harvesters of the ocean. All good anglers 
should love the Japanese. They ar q born, live 
and die, fishing. Hundreds, nay, thousands, 
of these junks, carry the whole family. Men, 
women, laughing boys, graceful girls, and wistful, 
brown-eyed babies, crowd these junks and live 
on ship; all are born sailor s\ Men and women 
alike swim like ducks. When the little “sampans” 
go over, the occupants frolic in the water, and 
paddle alongside, coolly, till picked up, or they 
gayly bail out and right the swamped craft. 

Pretty dark-eyed, soft-voiced girls (with superb 
busts, and lithe, sinewy arms), make the light 
“sampan” boat fly through the water; sculling 
astern with a well poised twelve foot sweep. 
Their rounded youthful arms shine like polished 
bronze. An earthen pot of live coals serves as 
a fire on the junk, to boil the rice, to dress the 
fish, and heat the water for the delicate infusion 
of native tea; drank without milk or sugar. 

Happy and gay, these daring simple fisher 
folk live in contentment. A lucky excess of their 
catch, furnishes them the few yards of blue or 
white prints needed, also their quaint straw 


I 


r 

THE PASSING SHOW 83 

shoes, a few salads and vegetables, and their 
tea and rice. Their recreation is chattering and 
endless story telling. Their artless manners are 
graceful and kindly. Quite as happy are they, 
as if toiling in huge factories, or under the en- 
forced task labor of civilized life. Some think 
even more so. I certainly envy their cheerful 
spirits. Graceful, genial pagans! Your memory 
is a gentle charm of the past! 

The few days of our Nagasaki leisure glided 
away. Groves and temples, bazaars and tea 
houses, lovely gardens and quaint old castles, all 
were visited. Many a useless but “fetching” 
curio was collected from the smiling, dark 
eyed, eager tradesmen. 

A pretty sailing pennant, one lovely day, flut- 
tered at the mast head of the splendid steel 
“Hiogo Maru,” bound for the Corean coast and 
Vladivostock, Siberia. The latter city of 15,000 
to 25,000, is the gate of the Russian East, — the 
Pacific terminus of the great soon-to-be-con- 
structed Russian Siberian railway. Already forty 
miles have been built toward the Amoor. While 
the English financial papers, growl: “You can’t 
—you know — really you can’t build it; you 


84 


THE PASSING SHOW 


Russians have no money !” the dogged Muscovite 
smiles in quiet satisfaction, as the rails go quickly 
down. The road will build itself, with paternal 
hints from the Czar! 

With the patriarchal despotic power of Russia, 
(not always wielded for ill,), whole brigades of 
hardy troops, vast communities of outlying 
people, will be moved bodily on the line. Making 
the road bed, will be only a gymnastic exercise 
for the easily controlled, peasant millions of the 
White Czar’s vast domains. 

Inexhaustible supplies of home-made steel 
rail and an excellent equipment, will be fur- 
nished by the Imperial government. The surplus 
revenues, and unused human energy, which a 
great war would exhaust in a useless bloody 
sacrifice to vanity, will build this grand road of 
the near future in five years. The already splen- 
didly efficient telegraph from Petersburg across 
Siberia to the Pacific, will be an important help 
in this great construction. The roads, with post 
houses every ten or fifteen miles from Ekaterin- 
burg, (four thousand miles to Vladivostock J have 
followed the natural “easy path.” For hundreds 
of miles, mere surface levelling and laying rail, 


THE PASSING SHOW' 


85 


will be the whole work. The trains will run as 
easily in winter as on the “Canadian Pacific. 

Off we glided, out of the narrow Nagasaki 
straits, in gay spirits. Ugly looking, well planted 
earthworks of enormous strength crowned the 
“ Heads.” The black muzzles of sundry hungry 
looking twelve inch Krupp rifles, alarmed me not, 
as I knew I was threading these silvery waters 
in “piping times of peace.” “Piping times,” in- 
deed, they were, as I puffed my trusty briar- 
wood, and chatted with spruce Captain Walker, 
(a game Scotchman), the ideal of a neat sailor. 
He, with his old-country engineers, represented 
the Caucasians and was in command of the crack 
vessel of the splendid principal Japanese fleet 
of fifty seagoing steamers. 

We had indeed “found an American” at Nag- 
asaki. Bright, genial, jolly Consul Birch, of 
West Virginia, at whose hospitable table we 
gathered at a merry dinner, honored thus the un- 
furling of his Consular flag on his assuming sway. 
May his shadow never grow less! He was a 
worthy representative of his country and a credit 
to his Department. Several local traders were 
also Americans; and snugly ensconced in a superb 


86 


THE PASSING SHOW . 


semi-palace, a community of good American 
missionaries, were busied there “christianizing 
the heathen” at leisure, and not sourly disdain- 
ful of varied creature comforts. 

I judged this from the quasi-royal manner in 
which they lived; also by their aristocratic avoid- 
ance of the “American globe-trotter.” We dis- 
turbed not their pious “Nirvana,” — our wan- 
dering feet rested not under their mahogany. 
Secure in their princely mountain eyrie, the 
tinkle of the Steinway piano floated out on the 
fragrant night air, from their cheerful windows. 
It was popularly whispered in Nagasaki, that 
the choicest dainties, the cream of the market, 
and the very best cheroots, found their way up 
to that lovely home, where these pious men and 
women calmly immolate themselves on the altar 
of “self-denial.” Even choice selections of 
“Spiritus frumenti,” and carefully culled exem- 
plars of the old brands of “Spiritus Vini Gallici,” 
were known to have climbed that sculptured 
hill ; It was “good for cramps;” “a rare preventa- 
tive of cholera,” and excellent to rub with, “on 
the inside.” 

I am told that careful “object lessons” in 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


87 


housekeeping accompany the more strictly spir- 
itual exercises. Trim stewards, with many neat 
handed maidens, improve their own minds and 
save their souls while humbly ministering to the 
temporal wants of the kindly saints who have 
“come so far to do good” to themselves and 
others. 

They do do good ! They do much good to them- 
selves ! — whatever is the general result of their 
spiritual labors. When double “rickshaw” rid- 
ing jaunts to the hills, and pony exercise fail to 
revive their waning spirits, I am credibly told 
these good souls go home to the land of the 
“Stars and Stripes” to recruit, on frequent leaves 
of absence, — their pay ever running on. They 
loudly urge the pious goggle-eyed wondering 
Sabbath-School child of America on these re- 
turn trips, to devote his stray nickels to the poor 
heathen ! The unceasing rattle of this childish 
tribute in the “missionary slot” serves to keep 
these good souls in fine fettle. All of these 
apostles I have ever met with, in my world 
wanderings, have been wonderfully well-fed and 
prosperous looking. Their raiment is of price. 

I approve their one item of self-denial: that 


88 


THE PASSING SHOW 


good standard silks and satins and Cr^pe-de- 
Chine, with plain lawns nd swiss muslins are 
good enough for them; they disdain mere use- 
less hidden embroidery. Sleek and fat are their 
handsome wives, who toil not, neither do they 
spin. Their budding daughters and spirited 
sons bear themselves with becoming pride as 
representatives of a great cause. 

Alas! these were not the Americans I was 
destined to find. My treasure trove was to be 
of a different, far different type. I fear he was 
a rough diamond. I am veritably told that my 
discovered citizen had used bad words — gone 
fishing safely on Sunday — and was fond of the 
things of this world. I saw him, (after the 
finding), engulf the maddening “fire water” with 
no outward signs of compunction. Ah! he was 
only a sailor. I doubt even now if he is a “brand 
snatched from the burning.” His spiritual state 
might not delight my pious neighbors on that 
lovely Nagasaki hillside. His unfortunate choice 
of a profession, will hang over him the lively 
chance of being drowned, as a means of leaving 
a world of care and trial, and unless he takes to 
“tea and tracts” and abjures sailor Jack’s usual 


THE PASSING SHOW 


h a ppy-g°-lu c ky code, he may go through water, 
to be gently or fiercely parboiled, or roasted in 
a later existence, at the will of Davy Jones! Yet 
he may some day meet a good missionary who 
will “grasp him on the brink.” Ah! yes! I hope 
so ! and complete his regeneration ! I only saved 
him from a lingering prison life! May some en- 
ergetic colporteur “rake in from the depth of sin” 
this wretched, wandering stranger. Yes! I should 
smile, if he did! So mote it be! 

Away northward toward the treeless, gaunt, 
rocky shores of eastern Corea, sped the good 
steel steamer Hiogo-Maru. Sole occupants of 
her splendid cabins, we made a jolly mess of 
three — with the good Captain. His bachelor 
pets, a superb Corean tiger-cat, a royal Japanese 
macaw, and a great bronze colored Siberian 
blood-hound, fwith sparkling eyes), furnished 
us amusement ! They “ran” the cabins. 

Chilly October blasts blew from the icy north, 
swelled high the waves, and the wailing seagulls 
wheeled and screamed over our heads at an omin- 
ous looking sunset. Midnight found us in a ty- 
phon, with slowed engines, snorting underthe lee 
of Tchusima Island, an old paradise of the hardy 


90 


THE PASSING SHOW 


Tartar Mongolians. They pushed over there 
from Corea, thence easily to Japan, carrying 
the “warrior blood” a thousand years ago to the 
then peaceful islanders. Thirty hours did we 
toss in this foaming, raging whirlpool. Lo! 
white winged Peace breathed on the waters; on 
we glided, on an even keel! Next day, barren, 
rugged and deeply indented shores greeted us, 
with the first spurs of the terrific lonely Tiger 
Mountains, which hung over us menacingly to 
the west for five days, until we neared the Golden 
Horn, beautiful Vladivostock Bay. 

Our first stop in Corea was at Fusan. Up to 
this, nothing but a few fires and scrambly look- 
ing patches, cleared here and there, indicated 
the presence of man. Fusan, (in a lovely cir- 
cular bay), is a collection of rude, mud-walled, 
thatched huts, with heating flues dug out in the 
ground below. The paucity of wood in an al- 
most treeless and very cold country, causes the 
wretched, poverty-stricken natives to use chopped 
straw and animal refuse as fuel. A few thin 
rice fields, some fair cattle, the harvest of fish- 
ing, with poultry raising, give the precarious sup- 
port the Coreans half starve under. They have 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


91 


no roads, vehicles, and very few beasts of bur- 
den. Rough rolling craggy hills make up the 
coast for eight hundred miles, with little tillable 
land. 

The mineral riches of the lonely land are un- 
developed and lie far in the interior. Hundreds 
of the rough natives lounged on the hills looking 
ghostly in their blouses and baggy trousers of 
white cotton cloth, wadded with raw cotton, (a 
native product), to keep out the intense cold. 

Frowsy, dirty, noisy, vulgar and given to ly- 
ing, small thieving and rioting, the Coreans are 
a very unamiable people. Crowds of them will 
follow foreigners and mob or stone them. If 
by chance you enter a residence, a hut, or speak 
to their hideous looking women — who flee away 
at the sight of a white man — a row begins. 
Cholera and smallpox annually carry off great 
numbers of them. A continued fish diet brings 
about peculiar local diseases. The higher ranks 
wear green, as a typical color; and mourning is 
denoted by a yellow garb; all these social uni- 
forms are of cotton, — absolute silence is enjoined 
on mourners! 

It is pleasant to note that the “tyrant man” 


92 


THE PASSING SHOW 


habitually carries the babies around in a cloth 
pouch, slung on his back; but as usual with 
barbarians, the women do all the hard work, 
except boating and fishing, as well as loading 
and discharging vessels. Greedy, cruel, inso- 
lent, brutal and cowardly, the Corean character 
defies missionary effort, and seems devoid of 
any merit known to a civilized code. They do 
not seem to care for drink; they cannot get any 
strong beverages as they are too poor. 

After a day’s stoppage at Fusan, northward 
did we voyage; passing dangerous shoals, jagged, 
cruel looking stony islands, and many reefs. 
The cold, gray, rocky buttressed mountains grew 
taller; they towered from 7,000 to 9,000 feet 
over our heads io the west. Infested with im- 
mense tigers, these ranges are untrodden by 
man. They are useless and impassable. 

Two days steaming into the teeth of icy gales, 
brought us to “Gensan,” on a long wooded flat, 
with a pleasantish valley behind it. Here, a 
thousand mud huts are scattered along two or 
three miles of shore. A few bronze bowls, some 
horsehair hats, and a knife or two were the 
only treasures here to be had. Well armed and 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


93 


with a reliable club, I landed with my wife, (as- 
sisted by the Captain), for a visit to the “lions” 
of Gensan. We watched long some tinsel 
decorated sly priests, pounding gongs and burn- 
ing tapers over a moribund Corean, who was 
dying in “great style,” surrounded by a lot of 
natives; with a horde of many hungry looking 
curs watching his agonies. After successfully 
“wafting the parting soul on'its way,” the priests 
“sold me” the fine bronze sacred gong, as a relic 
of Gensan. 

Narrowly escaping mobbing here, (from our 
natural Yankee curiosity), we turned the prow 
still northward. Three days after, in the grip 
of the Winter King, we glided into the magnif- 
icent Golden Horn, of Vladivostock Bay. A 
splendid sheet of water it is, locked in by heavy 
headlands, veiling the growing city from sight 
and protecting it from the fire of hostile war 
vessels. Two long arms of the bay run inland. 
A beautiful river wanders by, flowing into the 
western arm. 

Heavy grim forts, with tiers of huge rifled 
steel cannon, await that visit from the English 
fleet, which cannot be long delayed. The Rus- 


94 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


sian Bear, and English Lion must grapple ye. 
to the death. On land and sea, from India to 
Khamschatka, by the Baltic and on the Pacific, 
the old national grudges, studiously nursed, with 
bitter aversion, will be some day settled in a 
sad fashion. The only seaport in Siberia not 
frozen up a large part of the year, is this. It 
is a jewel in the Russian crown ! 

A grand array of magazines, workshops, naval 
store sheds, and two fine iron docks, furnish 
means for generally outfitting the Russian Pacific 
fleet. Wooded hills, good farming lands, and 
interior valleys, with great wheat crops, make 
this coast province a valuable country to the 
Czar. Fish, game and live stock are abundant. 
Cattle and horses suffer only from the rapacious 
tigers, who sway over the forests, and are es- 
pecially ravenous for horseflesh. A magnificent 
line of government subsidized steamers plies via. 
the Suez canal to Odessa. Many ships and steam- 
ers run direct to Hamburg, with special free trade 
rules, to assist the development of these^distant 
prpvinces. Goods and all European supplies 
of use and luxury, are very cheap and abundant. 
Navy and army officers throng the streets, and 


THE PASSING SHOW 


95 


eight to ten war vessels are always at hand. 
Abundant timber of good quality, good flour 
mills, fish in great variety, and a fur business 
of great extent, add to the importance of the 
growing place. 

Railroad conduction now employs hundreds 
of natives, Mongolians, soldiers, Chinese and 
Coreans. North to the Amoor the road will 
run, opening several rich valleys; thence west 
to Irkutsk and skirt the Chinese frontier, to join 
the Russian line now pushing rapidly to the Pa- 
cific Ocean. 

The teas and silks of China and Japan, the 
rich goods of the East and South Seas, will go 
into Europe quickly, breaking no bulk, safely to 
the heart of Russia. England’s mighty fleet will 
be then powerless against these torpedo closed, 
almost impregnable straits and forts. 

Twenty-five thousand people of all grades, 
throng the busy Golden Horn. The city strag- 
gles along for miles on the shores of the Bay, 
looking to the south-east. Solid log houses, 
splendidly finished with the beautiful white ce- 
dar, are the types of dwellings. Some magnifi- 
cent stone business houses, and many fine resi- 


THE PASSING SHOW 


dences adorn a town under the despotic military 
control of a Russian Adrtiiral of high rank. He 
commands the “Littoral,” or sea-shore, from 
the Corean frontier to the mouth of the Amoor. 
Two hundred miles up the Amoor, safe from all 
hostile fleets, the Governor-general of Pacific 
Siberia, rules over a great empire. It consists 
of this coast province, the interior, and Khams- 
chatka, as a separate governorship, under his 
general control. The great Island of Saghalien 
lies a few miles off the coast. There, thousands 
of felon convicts, banished for only the foulest 
personal crimes, are separated from all the state 
prisoners. They toil at the coal mines, for use 
of town and fleet, and are opening the interior 
of that splendidly rich isle. Coast steamers 
and fleet war vessels prowl along the shore, as 
far as Behring Straits, watching the nimble Jap- 
anese and Yankee predatory whalers, (so-called). 
They watch for the fleet Pacific coast schooners 
who steal seal skins and walrus hides and ivory, 
robbing the natives of these valuable furs, for 
poisonous rum, which kills them ! These pirates 
also supply the “tabooed” gun, pistols, and am- 
munition ! 


THE PASSING SHOW 


97 


An immense trade of an illicit character has 
been carried on in these for years. Numbers of 
Yankee vessels have been seized and confiscated 
for these buccaneering descents. Fraud, and even 
force, have often been used. Majy a chase has 
been hotly followed up for hundreds of miles to 
sea, by the Russian gunboats. 

The never-sleeping Russian overland tele- 
graph, serves to direct an immense amount of 
important business in this far-off region. 

No place in the world can show a more mot- 
ley assembly on its streets than Vladivostock. 
Coreans, Mongols, Chinese laborers and me- 
chanics, Tartars, Japanese, Khamschatkans, in- 
landtribes of uncouth aspect, soldiers, sailors, and 
officials, are a queer medley. Prince and peas- 
ant, the convict en route to Saghalien for life, 
ticket-of-leave criminals, (with distinctive uni- 
form), ex-felons, male and female, ragged sail- 
ors, and prosperous merchants, with many re- 
spectable families of the Government employees, 
give a polyglot character to these queer scenes. 

The “Admiral Governor ,, reigns supreme, in 
a spacious old, so-called “Palace” whose plain 
exterior speaks not of the really easy luxury of 


98 


THE PASSING SHOW 


the interior. A “Naval Club” has its social at- 
tractions for the very large number of officers. 
Fine bands discourse music on pleasant days, 
on ship and in the garden, where “flirting” goes on 
merrily. No climate seems to be too rigorous 
for love-making! A good college and training 
school for naval cadets is a marked local feature. 
One can feel here how long the arm of the 
mighty Czar is. 

)own went rattling our anchor. Soon a 
grim looking Colonel Chief of Police and his 
subordinates, came on board. Carefully pre- 
pared passports and friendly letters gave us the 
entree. In a few hours we were cosily dining 
at the “Golden Horn” hotel of the famous “Gel- 
etsky.” The “Delmonico” of that northen burg 
is an ex-opera-bouffe French tenor, from Mar- 
seilles. Handsome, gay, and an admirable 
“chef de cuisine,” his Siberian pheasants, stuffed 
with truffles, fine “filets,” and good wines were 
cheer fit for a royal epicure. 

Our sojourn of some weeks, was most agree- 
able. The little country trips, rare sights, and 
strange experiences, made time fly. Many hos- 
pitalities on the frigates, and at the military 


THE PASSING SHOiV 


99 


headquarters, were pleasant features. The Ad- 
miral Governor and his consort were charming. 
Neat little black Siberian ponies, with good car- 
riages trotted us briskly around, and life was 
jolly enough. 

My mentor was a gay gallant old Russian 
Prince, who was the military commander of the 
Province. Distantly related to the Emperor, 
a General of high rank, he had led a division of 
cavalry in the Russo-Turkish, war. Speaking all 
the languages, a keen sportsman, great horse- 
man, bon camarade, and of patrician manners, 
he was a delightful cicerone. 

Several Frenchmen, Italians, and all the 
agreeable well-educated attaches of two enor- 
mous local German business houses, made up 
our foreign society. These jolly Teutons lived in 
two domestic clubs, made up of the employes of 
the rival houses. The habits, diversions, songs 
and amusements of the Vaterland were kept up 
as if on the blue Rhine; so* far away, but unfor- 
gotten even here. 

Not a single American flag greeted our eyes; 
no fellow citizen appeared. I bewailed greatly 
that singular fact. I was destined to discover 


100 


THE PASSIha srfOlV 


one under very queer circumstances, however. 

After a stay of a month, I visited the principal 
German business house one day, to obtain our 
return tickets to Japan. We were at last turning 
our faces back to the Golden Gate. The neces- 
sary long formalities and official pow-wow with 
the stern Chief of Police, were over. My pass- 
ports had been returned “en regie” and I was 
the proud possessor of a stamped paper, author- 
izing me to leave the Port and depart on the 
next steamer. Gallant Captain Walker’s beauti- 
ful ship lay in the harbor; in two days she was 
to dip her colors to the Czar’s flag, and then 
bear us back to the spicy shores of dreamy, del- 
icately lovely Japan. 

The next evening our indefatigable chef “Tes- 
sier,” who cooked far better than he sang y tried 
to surpass himself in a good-bye dinner, at which 
our friend, the charming Prince, was to be our 
guest for the last time. 

My accounts were being finished ; I was rid- 
ding myself of sundry piles of unsubstantial 
looking paper “ roubles,” when the counting 
room door opened. Under escort of two heav- 
ily armed, brutal looking gens d’armes, a tall, 


THE PASSING SHOW 


101 


bronzed, stalwart young fellow strode in. Blonde, 
sinewy, with a snapping blue eye, he was the 
picture of superb strength; keen daring, and man- 
ly nerve showed in his every movement. A grace- 
ful nautical “roll” proved him a “toiler of the 
sea.” His decidedly neglig£ costume showed that 
he was “no dude.” Heavy sea boots, canvas 
trousers, and a leather belt — from which the knife 
had disappeared — and a coarse woolen shirt, 
was his outer garb. Coatless was he, and bare- 
headed. Such a costume ill-befitted the icy No- 
vember day. I thought him a Swede or Finn, 
and supposed the military police had arrested 
him on some ship, for a trifling infraction. 

I was electrified when he approached the 
courteous manager of the great house of Kunst & 
Albers, and asked with an unmistakable Yankee 
twang, if he could get a ticket to Japan. He was 
offering vainly to give a draft on a Yokahama 
shipping house. Datten, the manager, spoke 
English, and I remained silent. The sailor was 
shivering, and I was almost frozen even in my 
comfortable fur coat. I wondered what caused 
the plight of this fine, manly looking young fel- 
low. While puffing my cheroot I listened to the 


103 


THE PASSING SHOW 


positive refusal of the agent to give him any 
ticket. Not alone was it on money grounds, but 
principally as he had no “Police Pass” to go. 
“You can never leave the country, sir, till you 
get a Police Pass to go.” While listening to the 
sailor’s pleading and begging, I bethought me 
that the harsh Police Colonel held autocratic 
court under the august rule of the Admiral Gov- 
ernor. The Admiral never bothers his head 
with these ordinary malefactors. 

Several Coreans, Tartars and Mongolians had 
recently been neatly dispatched to a better world 
— it is hoped, — than this, by the keen sabre, or 
ready revolver of the Colonel himself. He had 
exercised his brawny sword arm only the week 
before on a stalwart Corean, whom he found 
on the sea beach endeavoring to batter in the 
head of a fellow countryman with a huge stone. 

I bethought me of the masterly execution of the 
Colonel. I also pitied the friendless sailor, 
who was evidently in the toils of that grim offi- 
cial. I gathered from the agent’s talk with the 
two policemen, that the mariner was all uncon- 
scious of the gravity of his forlorn situation. 

A final refusal caused the young giant to aud- 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


103 


ibly express, in the vernacular the most forcible, 
uncomplimentary opinions of Siberian justice 
or “injustice.” When the cautious merchant 
told him, he dared not think of helping him out 
of the country, the hardy sailor finally broke 
down. In his forcible tirade, he had announced 
that he was an American born citizen, and from 
the State of Maine. This touched my heart; 
for had I not shared my blankets at West Point 
with poor Jimmy Porter, (a gallant boy from 
Maine,) whose heart’s blood dyed his blue 
cavalry jacket a ghastly crimson, when his eyes 
closed forever in that mad rush of Custer’s 
doomed troopers at the Little Rose Bud massa- 
cre? 

I walked up to the downcast youth, who had 
thrown himself on a chair, and sadly buried his 
face in his hands. “Look here! old man!” said 
I, “I am an American!” He gave a jump. I felt 
the bones of my hand almost crack under the 
convulsive grip of the young Colossus. I asked 
permission to have a private chat with him. 
Taking him into a side room, his dejected air 
caused me to prescribe a five finger dose of good 
brandy, also a handful of cheroots. I soon 
learned his pitiable condition. 


104 


THE PASSING SHOW 


Hatless, coatless, moneyless, with all his 
possessions on his back; friendless, “without a 
passport,” half sick, and even half starved, his 
iron spirit was almost broken. He had given 
up only when the agent told him that far from 
going out of the country he would undoubtedly 
be brought before the coldly severe military po- 
lice tribunal. He must stand by his trial before 
any idea of departure could be entertained. Un- 
able to speak the language ; without friends, or 
any advocate, his case looked desperate, for he 
had been taken red-handed in an illegal descent 
upon “Robben Island” eight hundred miles 
north. This is one of the two great fur seal 
rookeries, so prized by the Russian government. 
They are the only places where that valuable 
animal is found to any extent; save on the 
American group of islands of the same icy seas. 
My long looked-for American had been found! 
He was in a hard fix, and firmly gripped in the 
sharp claws of the two headed Russian Eagle. 

A rouble for their extra leg exercise, to the 
good-natured guards, gave me the permission 
to take my American over to the “Geletsky” and 
there refresh his “inner man.” He had been 


THE PASSING SHOW 


105 


made wolfish by a thirty days’ trip from Robben 
Island, in the prison brig of a little Russian 
corvette. Tossed in, like an animal, a little tea, 
black bread, and thin cabbage soup, were his 
meagre rations; a very hard pine plank was the 
sailor boy’s bed. 

After he had performed a very effective knife 
and fork solo, he did a “round unvarnished tale” 
deliver, as folows: with sundry embellishments 
learned on the salt sea waves. 

Frederic Crocker — otherwise known as “Big 
Fred, the Hunter” — was born in Maine. From 
boyhood he had plunged into all the exciting 
scenes which the wild wayward life of a sailor, 
seal hunter, and Pacific adventurer could furnish. 
A dead shot, a good navigator, and an excellent 
first mate, he had made the round voyage of the 
world early. His remarkable rifle shooting, 
caused him to be made “first hunter” of a “sea- 
otter” schooner, while yet a boy. He sailed 
north and south from San Francisco, watching 
for that sly animal, whose small pelt brings hun- 
dreds of dollars, often. Many long nights had 
he tossed in his skiff off Santa Barbara, waiting 
the dawn, when the otter plays around the sea 


106 


THE PASSING SHOW 


weed banks, for the fish entangled there. While 
assistant hunters frightened the shy animal into 
diving and wearying himself, by shooting around 
him in a circle, it was reserved for the arch- 
professional, Fred, to dispatch the glossy prize 
by a neat head shot with a twenty-two calibre 
Winchester, in order not to tear or destroy the 
treasured skin. 

Drifting north in search of dollars and ad- 
ventures, Fred had become renowned as a fur 
seal killer. Leaving San Francisco in March 
and returning in November, the rich season’s 
division of coin soon melted away under the 
blandishments of sailor-jack’s varied winter de- 
lights in “Frisco. ” 

Every ship owner was glad to have such an 
all-round Admirable Crichton of the sea in his 
employ. A large “advance” would tide him 
over, till his unerring trigger finger had earned a 
new pile of shining “twenties.” Hunting “on 
the lay” with a large percentage, his had been a 
jolly life. Far to the mystic north had he 
ranged, and often had been past Behring Straits. 
Then only are sailors the “swells” of the 
ocean, — past their thirty-third degree, — when 
they have sailed in the trackless Arctic! 


fH£ PASSi/Vij ihritOWS 


10 ? 


Many a polar bear, huge, and white fleeced, 
scores of the wild ferocious brown land bears, 
hundreds of clumsy tusked walrus, had he dis- 
patched. His deadly aim had been utilized to 
nail the priceless old “Bow Head” whale, with 
that one well directed bomb gun shot, which 
is the steam whaler’s modern substitute for the 
old harpoon, now obsolete. Something of a rifle 
shot myself, I had often heard of the man’s won- 
derful powers. Now I had him all to myself, 
as a sort of treasure trove, subject to a lien held 
by His Imperial Majesty, Alexander, III. the 
“dynamite dodger.” 

Several years of sailing on the smart steam 
whalers from San Francisco, had thoroughly 
posted Fred in the tactics of these thievish boats 
which are half traders, half pirates. With a strong 
crew, a hold full of smuggled whisky and shoot- 
ing supplies, these boats slip over the Russian 
line, land on the Siberian shores, and fill up with 
furs, walrus, ivory, and the coveted whalebone. 
Whale oil is now of little value, but whalebone 
at four to six dollars a pound, means wealth. 

The tribes of the Siberian coast secure many 
thousands of pounds of whalebone yearly from 


108 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


the great “Bowheads” driven on their coast by 
gales, and killed in the shallow inlets by their 
daring native boat parties. This bone and their 
catch of walrus hides and tusks, as well as seals 
and otters, should furnish them with woolen 
necessaries and rye flour for winter use. 

The Yankee raiders give them wretched rum 
and cheap trash, at two thousand percent, profit, 
for their only property, the furs, ivory and bone. 
A grand debauch of months ends in the awful 
starvation scenes of Arctic midwinter. 

The Russian government kindly sends ship 
loads of flour and provisions with other neces- 
saries to those people, but many hundreds, even 
sometimes thousands starve yearly. A precau- 
tion, well judged, has been to patrol the coast 
with smart armed corvettes and chase away the 
predatory Americans. Force even has been 
used by these so-called whalers; really, pirates. 

It was some daring exploit of a well known 
captain, (whose able “Ancient’’ was our friend 
Crocker), that caused the sly Fred to turn his. 
errant steps to Yokohama. Several American 
vessels, (notwithstanding eager protestations of 
innocence), had been seized, and confiscated. 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


109 


Some the Russians used for training ships for 
their Naval Cadet school; others they sold when 
dismantled; and the oldest were sunk in various 
places to keep the English out* in the war flurry 
of 1885. They turned the captured crews loose 
with a last warning. 

It had been politely hinted by the Russian 
Consul General in San Francisco, that a “neck- 
tie” party would follow the catching of Fred’s 
chief, who was the terror of the coast. 

With all his cool recklessness in the face of 
imminent danger, Fred Crocker was no fool, 
and cared not to stretch Russian hemp. He 
hied him therefore to Yokohama, Japan, where 
he “fired the heart” of sundry Americans, en- 
gaged in speculation and outfitting. They en- 
tered into a well planned marine raid. A saucy, 
rakish schooner was purchased — as innocent a 
nautical “kid” as ever danced on the brine. Un- 
der the Japanese flag, she cleared for the Kurile 
Islands. Eighty tons of salt were a good bal- 
last, and much rum and munitions were concealed 
in various ways known alone to the initiated, 
A full crew of hardy Japs, with six or eight des- 
perate Americans manned her. 


110 


THE PASSING SHOW 


Her real purpose was to sail up to the head 
of the Kurile group, wait the time when the fur 
seals, swimming north, would announce their 
annual visit, then make a dash for Robben Is- 
land off the Siberian coast, their breeding place, 
and fill the boat with a hundred-thousand-dollar 
cargo. 

The few laborers of the Russo- American Fur 
Co., (an offshoot of the great Alaska Fur Co.), 
would have their annual quota — twenty or thirty 
thousand seals — killed, and leave the bare rock, 
which is only a few miles long, by October ist 
to ioth. To avoid the typhoon gales, they leave 
early, as the lonely rock is untenable in winter. 
The seals do not depart from the sandy spits 
around this strangely selected rookery till No- 
vember 15th, every year, by some mysterious 
reckoning of their own. 

Now, a few days with clubs and lively skinning 
knives, would fill the hold of the “Fleetwing” 
with from ten to fifteen thousand skins; and 
then gliding out into the gray mists with the 
current, a couple of days would place the pirate 
safe in the undisputed Japanese jurisdiction of 
the long Kurile Island chain. If overhauled 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


111 


then, they would claim that the skins were 
traded for with the wild Kurile Islanders, who 
get many thousands of these strange “sea 
bears,” for so they are really — as they swim 
north through the archipelago in search of a 
quiet “hauling out” sand bar. 

In default of finding seals at Robben Island, 
the schooner was to spread her white wings and 
dodge along the Siberian coast, trading rum, 
guns, and cheap goods, for whalebone, ivory, 
sea-otter, sable, white wolf, and priceless blue- 
fox skins; even the salt ballast would sell well. 

All this little programme showed the neat 
hand of the accomplished pirate, Fred Crocker. 
Stern historical truth, makes me admit that his 
smartness led him into a well deserved punish- 
ment. The “Fleetwing” had merrily threaded 
the straits of the dangerous Kuriles, and the in- 
dustrious crew had by trading, and shooting 
stray swimming seals, captured twelve hundred 
skins, worth $20,000, when plump they ran into 
the one little cove of Robben Island, their El 
Dorado. 

Joy reigned on the rakish buccaneer, for the 
sand beaches were even yet covered with a vast 


112 


THE PASSING SHOW 


herd of barking, growling, wallowing fur seals. 
Hastily reconnoitering with his powerful field 
glass, Nimrod Fred, announced to the over- 
joyed skipper that there were “dead loads of 
seals” and no one in sight. 

Under the captain’s quick orders, the main 
boat was lowered from the stern davits, and 
Fred was sent with four Japanese sailors ashore 
to spy out the land; also to fill a couple of 
forty-gallon water butts from the spring, which 
was the only supply element of the islet. 

Taking a stout club, to keep off any quarrel- 
some old “bachelor” seal — for that animal hates 
the noise of fire-arms, and is easily alarmed — • 
with his glasses slung on his shoulder, away 
glided Frederick Crocker, Esq., First Mate of 
the dandy “Fleetwing” to thrust his hand into 
Czar Romanoff’s capacious pocket. The landing 
was effected, and was watched with anxiety 
from the peerless schooner, gliding up and down 
in easy short courses, standing off and on. She 
only waited for the promised signal of a fire, 
to send “all hands” ashore to knock the unresist- 
ing prey in the heads by the hundreds. 

Alas for human ingenuity — alas ! for that dash- 


the passing show 


113 


ing pirate, Fred Crocker! Alas! for the poor 
affrighted Japs! From a gulley near the shore, 
rose up the gray overcoated forms of a Russian 
lieutenant and a dozen concealed riflemen! 
They pounced with fiendish glee on the five ma- 
rauders. Landing is absolutely prohibited by 
the Russian government, both at Robben and 
Copper Islands, the fur seal treasuries. Only 
really shipwrecked sailors who may be cast away 
by the howling fall tempests, scourging Behring 
sea, are decently treated, and put on passing 
ships of their own nation, and sent home with 
valid Police Passports by the Russian officials. 

Now, down the beach clattered a couple of 
the Japs, in mortal terror. A few high aimed 
rifle shots brought the Japs to their knees. 
Crocker was promptly knocked down with a 
musket butt, his knife and glass taken from him, 
his arms tied behind his back, and he was 
marched up to the one little hut on the island, 
as a prisoner of war. Gloomy were the reflec- 
tions of this “fellow de sea,” as he observed the 
“Fleetwing” rapidly standing out to the ocean, 
skimming the waves for safety. The skipper 
had seen the gleam of the bayonets, the puffs 


114 


THE PASSING SHOW 


of rifle smoke, and the hubbub on the beach told 
the story. 

Wily indeed is your Muscovite! They had 
neatly concealed their detachment of guards; 
knowing that quite likely some ocean rovers 
would try and run in and take a cargo out of the 
excess of seals left for the breeding. Your “le- 
gal sealer” kills only the well developed “bach- 
elor” seals. The robber kills mother and pup, 
old and young, having regard for no future in- 
terest of this most curious animal. They are des- 
tined to go where the giant elk, the grand bison, 
and nimble mustang have gone, — out of exist- 
ence, — crushed out by the money-craving rapac- 
ity of man. 

The wise Russian Governor Admiral, had or- 
dered the detachment to stay this year till the 
beach was bare of seals; until their mysterious 
southern voyage was begun. No man knows 
from whence they come! None, whither they 
go! only that it is to, and from the south, and 
by sea. Frolicking along on the surface, they 
stream north in early May, to vanish in winter. 
Never seen on other islands, or the surface of 
the ocean, after leaving the vicinity of the north- 


THE PASSING SHOW 


115 


ern scattered rookeries, their movements for the 
rest of the year, are a sealed mystery of nature. 

A saucy Russian corvette, poked her nose 
around the end of the island — a week or later 
our hero and the four Japs were put on board. 
The boat and its outfit were kept for the use of 
the detachment. Several weeks of patrol were 
over, and the corvette landed our sailor prisoner 
at Vladivostock, where he was turned over to 
the police. The chief had kept him a close 
prisoner. He sent him down at his request un- 
der guard, to the business house, where I met 
him. The well versed chief wished him to have 
an apparent conference with English speaking 
foreigners, so that Crocker could be the more 
easily tried, and condemned to ten years labor 
in chains, at the Saghalien mines, as a “pirate.” 
The Japs were shoved contemptuously on 
a junk of their own nation, and allowed to go 
home; as not being responsible for the landing. 

Crocker had not relished the chilly log crib he 
was confined in. A mud floor, no blanket, and 
scanty food, (not fit for a dog), had almost worn 
him out. No hat, coat, tobacco, no coffee was 
given him. He had no means of bathing, or 


116 


THE PASSING SHOW 


medical care. Well was it for him that his iron 
sinews had been braced by hardship and early 
toil. Only being a muscular giant in life’s morn- 
. ing, had kept him alive. 

Vehemently did he abuse the schooner cap- 
tain for cowardice in tamely leaving him. I sug- 
gested that a successful fight was impossible. 
The heavy military muskets and discipline of the 
well armed detachment, made an attack impossi- 
ble. I ventured to remind him that his share 
of the trip’s profit was safe, if the boat got away; 
otherwise he would be penniless, even if he did 
finally secure a release. 

This, somewhat mollified my young giant. It 
turned out later that the dare-devil “Fleetwing’' 
ran up north, went into a lonely Siberian inlet, 
and got a full load of whalebone , walrus, and 
ivory, which with the stolen sealskins, made a 
profit for Crocker of several thousand bright Jap- 
anese “Yen” dollars. 

Now came the all-important problem ! How to 
transfer the legal guardianship of Fred Crocker 
—this “Jack Sheppard” of the Arctic, from his 
gracious Majesty Alexander III. , to myself! I 
was willing to give him necessary money, and 


THE PASSING SHCHV 


117 


to aid him. I had genially smiled on the two 
gens d’ armes. Friend “Geletsky,” at my modest 
request, had told them I was an “American 
Prince of very high degree. ” I left them discuss- 
ing a bottle of “vodki” and some good tobacco 
in the back rooms, with various dainties from 
the well-stocked kitchen. 

I was allowed to give my new-found American, 
some spare underwear, from my ample hunting 
outfit, a good rough coat, an old navy boat over- 
coat, a fur cap and thick gloves. A warm gray 
Russian army blanket, and cheap fur robe cost 
only a few shillings at a shop under the Golden 
Horn hotel. Plenty of tobacco, a pipe, some 
matches, a knife, a bottle of good brandy, and 
some old San Francisco papers, made him com- 
fortable. I gave him a number of small one- 
rouble bills, which would gain him considerable 
comfort in the station, if “judiciously handled.” 

The guards had not bothered him much, ex- 
cept by rude but effective pantomimes, to indi- 
cate that any attempt to leave the log crib would 
bring an ounce ball crashing through his head. 
All the Siberian soldiers are deadly sharp shoot- 
ers. Crocker had “caught on” to that idea. 


118 


THE Ps,^iNG SHOIV 


Wisely did I call jolly little “Geletsky” into the 
“confab” with my newly discovered countrymen, 
of whose “exploitation” I was very proud. I 
was, so to speak, his Ward McAllister, launch- 
ing him into Siberian society, under my wing: 
“My fellow citizen!” He was a “prominent cit- 
izen!” “So was I — ” Alas there is no “Society 
journal” in Vladivostock. The jolly Russian eats 
more than he reads. 

We decided after several bottles had been 
emptied, while “laying our heads together,” that 
I should not personally call on the Admiral or 
Chief of Police. I feared complicating my own 
position. I might then even be an object of 
suspicion. A happy inspiration was it, to take 
my ocean bird down to the kind-hearted Prince 
Wittgenstein, frankly tell him the whole story, 
and keeping “mum” about seals, we decided to 
claim that my giant was sent ashore under or- 
ders, for water. As no arms were with the party, 
and no seals had been killed, this yarn might go! 

Had the police authorities known that it was 
the redoubtable, “pirate Fred Crocker,” they 
had in their clutches, no influence could have 
saved him from at least ten years horrible penal 


THE PASSING SHOW 


119 


slavery at Saghalien. Disease, or a stray rifle 
ball would have soon brought the prisoner’s sad 
release. Luckily, also, the northern cruisers 
were not yet down for the winter. On them 
might be some Khamschatkans, hunters, who 
knew the not wholly guileless Frederic. I had to 
take him, as he was, “with all his imperfections 
on his head.” We artfully detached Geletsky 
to make the flinty heart of the Police Colonel 
soft by a good dinner. He promised to have 
the treatment relaxed in severity. A few kind 
words from my sympathetic wife, brought tears 
to the eyes of my grateful “pirate.” 

Away we sped in a “Khibitka,” the two jolly 
guardsmen, and all the supplies with us, and 
trotted down the strand where my good Prince 
made his headquarters with a rich Russian ship 
owner. 

The handsome debonair Prince welcomed me 
warmly. In his long gray coat, with its rich 
sable capes and cuffs, and the great white Army 
Commander’s cross at his neck, he was the pict- 
ure of a high bred man. A personal friend of 
the Prince of Wales, a member of all the swell 
clubs of the gay European capitals, he kindly 


120 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


took the poor American lad’s cause to heart. 
After presenting my Colossus — who called him 
“Mr. Prince” — and nearly crushing the magnate’s 
hand in the national “shake,” we went over the 
ground. My noble friend’s brow grew very grave. 
He finally said “Well I must go to the Admiral, 
and beg this only as a personal favor. If your 
young man is tried, he is “gone up” sure. The 
Prince offered us refreshment of a carefully se- 
lected spiritual character, and was, soldier-like, 
kind to the poor devil. He promised to see the 
Governor that night ; and to meet me, at supper, 
later at the hotel. Thoughtfully he promised 
to send for the young man, next day, early, on 
his own account, and thus keep him out of jail 
“on his personal recognizance,” if necessary. 

I ventured to remind the good General that 
the mail ship, one of the last of the season, was 
to leave next day; at midnight after our good- 
bye dinner. I wanted to get Crocker’s passport, 
ticket, and papers, and put him on the boat, un- 
der the protecting Japanese flag at once. Once 
there, I knew Captain Walker would protect 
him; yet I did not want the steamer detained, 
or her absent Japanese owners complicated. 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


121 


With a hearty greeting we went out into the 
freezing night. My pirate, (now hopeful), to 
the comfort of a mud hovel but, thank God, 
not like a dog, as before, but with decent means 
of “fighting time.” I could sleep easily under my 
warm Japanese raw-silk quilts, after that nice 
supper, knowing that my “new-found American” 
was refreshed and in better trim. 

I felt sure I would not “lose him,” as the grim 
Russian Colonel was a chaperon not to be mis- 
trusted. I delivered my charge over to the mil- 
itary police sergeant, saying “Good-night! old 
fellow! To-morrow will see us all right, I 
hope !” A few minutes brought me back to my 
appropriate social duties. 

About half past nine, the jolliest little supper 
imaginable was on the table. Our princely pro- 
tector appeared with the joyous news that the 
Admiral had ultimately yielded. After a hard 
fight, he had presented the Prince with the 
“new-found American;” suggesting that it would 
be well he should shake the Siberian icicles 
quickly off his nautical boot heels. Our good 
mediator — who was as crafty withal as any 
Arctic fox — had the precaution to have an order 


122 


THE PASSING SHOW 


signed by the Admiral, (himself), both as a re- 
lease and a “laissez passer.” He had sent one 
of his own staff officers to the station to direct 
the release of my captive mariner, at day break. 

The wandering sailor-boy was formally turned 
over to my ownership, by the Prince handing 
me the valuable paper, as we clinked glasses in 
goodnight. My wife joined in the glee, and we 
were at the pinnacle of satisfaction when the 
Colonel Chief of Police appeared. H$ was es- 
corted by “mine host, Geletsky.” He, with 
much saluting, and many military panjandrums, 
announced to the General, who wore the gold 
crown of an Imperial Mfijor General Aide de 
Camp on his rich bullion shoulder knots, that 
he had been ordered to turn the “Amerikansky 
prisoner” over to him. Our august friend, pre- 
sented the grim Colonel to us both. My kind- 
hearted wife shuddered as she touched his death- 
dealing hand. We gave him the inevitable cup 
of compliment. Russians are born, live and die 
— in champagne! 

The gay Geletsky winked joyfully at me, as 
the Colonel promised to send my pirate to me 
at day break. For the Prince had presented me 
this wild youth cast up by the sea! 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


123 


With a flourishing salute, the Colonel went 
off to his billiards and vodki; and we, after 
mutual congratulations, slept the sleep of the 
righteous. The ocean rover’s fate was far hap- 
pier than his uneasy dreams (conscience pic- 
tured) brought him! 

I found on waking, my waif of the ocean, 
snugly installed in the cafe of the Golden Horn. 
He was wearing a grin as broad as a full moon. 
He had already tasted the sweets of notoriety, 
Geletsky, who was the crowning gossip of Vlad- 
ivostock, had already spread the report of the 
night’s doings. The “brave Crocker” was a 
friend of His Highness, Prince Ferdinand Witt- 
genstein, Major General Commanding, and an 
Aide de Camp to the Emperor of Russia, so ran 
the growing story. 

This made him, at once, a man of mark. He 
was already “living up to his blue china.” I 
dispatched a hearty breakfast, and we proudly 
drove over to the splendid headquarters of the 
millionaire house of Kunst & Albers. My pro- 
duction of the order, signed by the Admiral him- 
self, created a genuine sensation. That venera- 
ble functionary was the “little tin god on wheels” 
of chilly Pacific Siberia. 


124 


THE PASSING SHOW 


Only Governor General Baron Korf at Habar- 
ofka, and the Prince General Commandant, 
were his associates in governing a land as large 
as the United States. From the decision of two 
of them, appeal to the Emperor personally, 
alone , could change the august fiat when offi- 
cially blue stamped. I rapidly got the ticket. 
Good humored Manager Datten completed the 
personal outfit of my pirate. There is a bit of 
heart in your rotund Teuton! We drove to the 
hotel. Soon we emerged with all the poor be- 
longings of Crocker, which we sent out to the 
steamer. 

By this time the small social puddle of that 
Arctic burg was agitated. “Pirate Fred” was 
the hero of the hour. He was popularly supposed 
to have a “strong pull with St. Petersburg,” 
and almost call the august Emperor, “Aleck” 
for short ! 

We drove up then to the kindly Prince’s head- 
quarters. Warmly eloquent, with honest tears 
in his piratical eyes, did my one new-found Amer- 
ican thank the powerful friend who had per- 
formed this graceful act of mercy. We found 
him under the hands of his nimble valet. Dress- 


THE PASSING SHOW 


125 


ing gown and slippers, his coffee-table, and the 
inevitable gigantic, hand-rolled cigarette, in- 
dicated a most decided state of “taking it easy.” 
Said the nobleman, (after the sailor boy’s rude 
but heartfelt thanks were uttered), “Now, is 
there anything else?” “Well! Mr. Prince , I had 
a good pair of marine glasses, a San Francisco 
bowie-knife, and my old pistol on me when I was 
taken. I know they are on the ship. I would 
like them back, if you please!” They were the 
pirate’s daily jewelry! 

Instantly the General wrote a note to the 
Chief of Police and directed the instant return 
of the confiscated articles; this strangely fol- 
lowed at once. Usually, the Russians “return 
no money at the door!” The Prince was a 
Spartan of laconic ferocity. 

We prepared to leave; the kindly old General 
rising, and showing us the door in person. 
Crocker caught his hand, remarking: “Mr. 
Prince! as long as I live, I shall say I have met 
one Russian gentleman, who is a square white 
man, you bet !” The courtly Wittgenstein laugh- 
ed merrily, saying: “Keep away from Robben 
Island, my boy, after this, at any rate, don’t get 
caught again, for I won’t be here!” 


126 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


Down to the landing we smartly moved. 
Soon a five minutes’ trip in a sampan boat, 
placed Fred on the deck of the “Hiogo-Maru.” 
Captain Walker kindly received him, and I gave 
that commander the official passport paper as 
his warrant. Strictly enjoining Crocker not to 
leave the boat, under any pretense till our sail- 
ing ; I went ashore for our final greetings and the 
good-bye dinner. 

It would be a long story to describe our royal 
“send off” by the many official and personal 
friends. I am not enough of a Brillat-Savarin 
to tell how chef “Tessier” surpassed himself in 
the famous dinner. I know the borrowed plate 
of the Naval Mess helped out the decorations. 
The fillets, game, oysters, pheasants, and all the 
dishes, “a la Francais,” were worthy of the Em- 
peror’s own table. Choice wines furnished a 
stimulus to our natural gayety. Our gallant 
guest was inimitable in his stories of camp and 
court, of war and peace. Little glimpses of his 
wild Caucassus campaigns, bits of old court in- 
trigue, and some early army scrapes, witty stories 
of the clubs ; and peeps at the mysterious charm- 
ing Russian society life, with its silken cur- 


THE PASSING SHOW 


127 


tains drawn, all these caused the happy hours 
to glide away quickly. 

Chef “Tessier” with a cracked guitar, sang us 
snatches of the “Perichole” and other ancient 
Gallic works. He had failed superbly in that 
opera! His soft heart and voice were both at- 
tuned to “Love,” always “Love!” A sentimental 
tenor, cook, and globe trotter! A gay and not 
unmanly Gaul! 

Geletsky rubbed his hands in glee, as he re- 
ceived his pile of crisp roubles for our long stay. 
He sent us several thoughtful gifts of Russian 
wines, cordials, and sweetmeats. He capped 
this with some real choice “vodki,” warranted 
“to bring the dead to life.” I think it might raise 
the “moribund,” as I know it skinned my throat ! 

Some of the Russian soldiers sang for us in 
chorus, their wild, plaintive, peculiar songs. 
With quite a little procession we departed, un- 
der the clear starlight, in a splendid barge, skim- 
ming over the dancing waves, for the swift 
“Hiogo Maru.” Her funnels were already puffing 
great volumes of black smoke. 

Game to the last, the Prince took us off in a 
splendid Russian navy boat, with the great blue 


188 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


and white St. Andrew’s cross war-flag, (due his 
rank), flying at the stern. We had seen all the 
lions of Vladivostock and vicinity. They had 
been briskly trotted out for us. Neither the 
official claw of the Russian Bear, nor the sharp 
nails of the forest tiger had worried us. It was 
with genuine feelings of regret at parting that 
we heard the screw begin to revolve. The last 
bottles of champagne were opened by our gallant 
Captain Walker. Our grim Police Colonel and 
his extremely business-like guard, saluted and 
disappeared, after the grim official had partaken 
of our cheer. Hugely did I enjoy the sight of 
the cold-blooded Tartar warmly shaking the 
mighty hand of my now famous American. 

“Brother” Fred Crocker was calmly enjoying 
his cheroot by the gangway, and grinning at the 
rude soldiery, who had now no terrors for him. 
Fred waylaid the Prince and wrung the jeweled 
and gouty hand of the old warrior, who really 
had taken a warm fancy to my dashing young 
“pirate.” A soldier’s fondness for a brave man! 

A few last salutations and the boats glided 
away. Their measured strokes threw up bright 
showers of diamond sparkles in the starlight. 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


129 


Walker, (gold banded cap on head), had sprung 
with the pilot to the bridge. Sharply rang the 
bell “Go ahead!” and out we sped, past the 
grim steel warders of the heavy crested batteries, 
threaded the beautiful Golden Horn, and passed 
beyond the outer lights. 

Soon we danced on the broad ocean, our good 
ship rising and sinking gracefully on the swell 
of the clear, crisp., salt main sea. 

The good wife, tired out, was enjoying the 
rest of a splendid double cabin. I returned to 
the deck to smoke my last cigar before turning 
in. I found my fellow “American sovereign” wait- 
ing me. 

Some years have elapsed, but it will need 
many more before I can forget the rude elo- 
quence of the sailor boy’s speech of thanks to 
me. Every breath of ozone laden salt air seemed 
to cause him to “swell visibly.” He towered 
over me, as he professionally scanned the “out- 
look” for the night. He had made himself at 
home at once, with the adaptability of the jack 
tar, and was as happy as a bird let loose. 

I sought that quiet seclusion “which the cabin 
grants,” and broad daylight was streaming in 


130 


THE PASSING SHOW 


the port-holes when the grandiose Chinese head- 
steward spread his preliminary repast, before the 
breakfast in state. Happy was I to be homeward 
bound, glad of the pleasant experience in a 
strange land, and hugely proud of 

“FINDING AN AMERICAN.” 

Our voyage to Japan and through the Inland 
Sea to Yokohama was most agreeable. Stop- 
pages at Possiette Bay, Siberia, and several in 
Corea, enabled me to have some hunting jaunts. 
I was accompanied by the sportsman Captain, 
and that mighty Nimrod, “Crocker.” I had 
fitted him out with a spare gun and accessories, 
and many head of game went down before his 
keen eye and never failing aim. 

Long tales of the wild Arctic life, yarns “of 
the land and sea,” did my proteg^ spin to me. 
Unconscious of any peculiar experience, (taking 
the world as it came), his stories were of deep 
interest. It is pleasant to relate that on' our 
arrival in Yokohama, he gratefully discharged 
all pecuniary obligation to me. He also testi- 
fied in many other ways his gratitude. 

The unholy venture of the “Fleet wing” was 


THE PASSING SHOW 


331 


after all very successful! Before I caught the 
homeward bound “ Oceanic,” Fred had fingered 
a goody pile of bank notes and dollars. He 
loyally came down to see me off, and departed 
on his mysterious cruise of life. 

In a return visit to Japan the next year, I rec- 
ognized the very fine finger and neat wit of Fred- 
eric in the taking out of the midst of an Ameri- 
can fleet of five war vessels, of a very distin- 
guished officer, who was undergoing a court 
martial trial, as a close prisoner. By means of 
a little boat, the fleeing culprit was received 
from a port hole, when he dropped out appar- 
ently into the sea. He got away to the northern 
wild islands, and it took a whole United States 
fleet to re-capture him; after his supposed “sui- 
cide” was found to be only a neat trick. 

a I heard the name of “Fred Crocker” coupled 
with this new dare-devil exploit. It made “our 
navy” a laughing stock for some time, at that 
port. Fifteen hundred dollars was the “liberal 
honorarium,” I believe, in this case. Had Fred 
gone “north” with him, the fugitive officer 
never would have been caught. Our hero’s 
contract was only to get him away, past the 


132 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


forts, and to put him on a north bound schooner 
outside the bay. 

I saw the “guileless Crocker,” sipping his pale 
ale, the next evening at the International Hotel; 
with the cherubic innocence of a Sunday-School 
boy, and he sat broadly smiling when he heard 
that the American Navy officers were dragging 
the bay for the “corpse” of the supposed suicide ! 

A couple of years later, the lively schooner 
“Mary Ellen” of Victoria — British Columbia, — 
put in to San Francisco, “for water.” She was 
said to be empty, and returning from a hunting- 
cruise. I was not appalled when afterward I 
was told that she had landed many tons of smug- 
gled opium at Drake’s Bay, a few miles north. 
She had thus victimized Uncle Sam’s revenue 
to the extent of one hundred and fifty thousand 
dollars. I was rather taken aback when I did 
find out that her first officer was “the mighty 
Crocker.” He had engineered this neat little 
descent. 

Alas! I fear I may have some moral respon- 
sibility for extending the untrammeled career of 
my spirited, active sailor. ' He has done much 
good to himself, and earned many a pretty penny 


THE PASSING SHOW 


183 


for his San Francisco backers. It is to be hoped, 
when his eye is dimmer and his joints stiffer, he 
may retire. I hope he will spend the evening 
of his life in “pious works,” and set a good ex- 
ample to the young Crockers who may appear, 
when some bright eyed lass ensnares the affec- 
tions of the rollicking freebooter, whom I saved 
from the lingering horrors of Saghalien. 

It will be useless “to point a moral,” or fire 
judicious “kindergarten tales,” and “Sunday- 
School lectures,” at the coming young brood. 
They will take to blue water, and go away like 
the young of the wild fowl, winging their wild 
path over the trackless deep. Strange, wonder- 
ful restlessness handed down from father to son. 
At the bow of the whale boat, in the widlly 
tossed life-saving cutter, laying out on icy yard- 
arms, or standing by the guns of our navy in future 
battles for the flag, these young “Mother Cary’s 
Chickens” will always be heard from; first in 
the flight, and farthest from home. So it will 
ever be! So may it be! 

And now the last few words for our gallant 
Prince! Afterward in San Francisco, and at 
St. Petersburg, did we renew the pleasing assur- 


134 


THE PASSING SHOW 


ances of a warm friendship. Inexorable Time, 
and the pallid touch of the grim warder Death 
did their work. The martial, courteous, gay 
and winning old nobleman, sleeps with his fath- 
ers. Never more will he rein his black Circas- 
sian down the Nevsky. Never more delight with 
his wit a circle of pretty Maids of Honor at .the 
Winter Palace court receptions. His favorite 
seat is filled by another at the clubs. His wild 
division of mad Circassian cavalry will never see 
him, (sword in hand), ride at their head over 
the enemy’s works again! 

He has fought the good fight. The deep blue 
Russian violets never blossomed over a kinder, 
more gracefully amiable old hero, than the Gen- 
eral. Requiescat in pace! 

In all the many characteristic acts of courtesy, 
marking his chequered and romantic life, none 
shines out more brightly than his unselfish and 
powerful efforts in behalf of the castaway Amer- 
ican. The wanderer was to him only a mere 
cipher in the Book of Life! 

So I leave my dear old friend, with the stain- 
less sword by his side, the great white cross rest- 
ing on his gallant breast. I shall not again go 


THE FHSSING SHOW 


135 


to Siberia! I therefore suppose I shall never 
again have the good luck of, single handed, 
“Finding an American. ” 



EXIT DICK FISHER. 

A CALIFORNIA PROSE DRAMA FROM 
LIFE. 

IN TWO ACTS. 

ACT I. THE BALL. 

I t was undeniable that pretty Kitty Zaph was 
the belle of Nevada County, California, in 
1852. Girls were not as plenty in the Golden 
State then as to-day. The more staid members 
of the Argonauts were beginning to bring their 
families, and Lares and Penates, into the em- 
bryonic community, just beginningto crystallize 
into civilization, on the golden shores of the 
Pacific. The tedious trip, around the Horn, of 
the gold hunters was impossible for women and 
children. A brisk steamer opposition between 
the Panama and the Nicaraguan routes was pour- 
186 


THE PASSING SHOW 


187 


ing into the Golden Gate from New York and 
New Orleans, a tide of settlers of all ranks, abili- 
ties and degrees of previous experience. Young, 
aspiring, educated men, splendidly endowed 
youths from North and South, hardy mechanics, 
and laborers came, as well as the miscellaneous 
masculine and feminine riff-raff of the human 
race, with shady antecedents, eager for prey. 
Even Europe was sending us detachments of ad- 
venturous souls, glad to plunge into the whirling 
eddies of that strange River of Life. The first 
peopling of the new El Dorado, Nevada County, 
California, was in the banner region for the gold 
hunter. The rich bars of the Feather, Yuba, 
and Bear Rivers, were covered with crowds of 
miners of all colors and classes. Nevada City, 
Grass Valley, Red Dog, Little York, Lowell 
Hill, Waloupa, Remington Hill, Liberty Hill, 
and other quaintly named little towns, boasted 
their log cabins, framed houses, tents and huts. 
These settlements were dignified with hotels, 
saloons, express offices, general stores, and the 
inevitable blacksmith, and butcher shop. The 
tall pines swayed ominously over these little 
clearings on flat and hillside. Mule trails were 


138 


THE PASSING SHOW 


the only avenues of travel, thronged with pe- 
destrians, pack on back, or long lines of loaded 
animals, whose long-eared leaders lazily an- 
swered the frantic yells of “Hippa! Mula.” 

Far down in the canons, the flashing diamond 
rivers were fast losing their pristine color, with 
the thousands of tons of soil, cement, and gravel 
sent down after the pan, rocker, cradle and 
flume had done their work in saving the golden 
lumps, dull grains, or bright dust-like scales of 
the varied forms of the great last good of this 
seething human hive, the magic gold! Many 
times the lonely pines sang a requiem over young 
and old. The crack of the revolver, a thrust of 
a knife, death by accident, sudden disease, and 
unwonted hardships, all these varying determi- 
nants in Death’s hands increased the general 
mortality. 

Every settlement had its rude Potter’s Field, 
whose unmarked mounds of red clay were only 
ornamented here and there with a rude cross, 
a shingle with a pencilled name, or a pile of 
stones “In Memoriam” which marked the miner’s 
or adventurer’s last resting place. Hundreds 
of these dead men were buried literally in gold 


THE P/fSSING SHOW 


139 


or richest ores; and in later years their bones 
have gone where the grand hills of my boyhood 
went. They were sluiced down toward the ever 
hungry sea! 

Already the pine clad Sierras showed great 
gaps, where powder and hydraulic pipe hose, 
were gnawing steadily at the tough coverings of 
the mountain gnome’s treasures. The first 
Californian stamp mill was pounding out its 
golden grains, the forerunners of many scores 
of harvested millions. Nevada County, Cali- 
fornia, alone, has given to our metallic wealth 
a countless treasure. The rude miner’s records 
of the simple justice’s courts, and the skeleton 
higher legal machinery, were now emerging 
from the first chaos; still as a rule, every man’s 
life was held in his ready hand. Knife and pistol 
were still the best arguments! Preachers were 
not yet in the vineyard laboring. The physi- 
cian was principally occupied with interesting 
cases of violence or accident. The lawyer usu- 
ally was in some queer occupation, foreign to 
his oily trade. Private quarrel settled itself rap- 
idly for process was useless. Titles there were 
none, but possession was defended always by 


140 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


life. The murderer, horse-thief, or marauder, 
was summarily lynched, or given the Mosaic 
forty stripes, and told to “go forth” and that in 
“double-quick style.” 

Notwithstanding this, a few families had al- 
ready settled in this wild country. Amusement 
— a first necessity — was provided by the open 
gambling saloons, where crowds of painted cos- 
mopolitan sirens presided over the tables; and 
scores of wandering German “Hurdy-Gurdy” 
girls, so-called, with dance and song enlivened 
the long winter evenings. Euphonic titles, the 
“Blue Wing,” “Arcade,” “Magnolia,” and “Bella 
Union,” were strangely reminiscent of gay New 
Orleans; for the “sports” and “gamblers” of that 
luxurious city of the old slavery days, were the 
first adventurers on the ground. Other recre- 
ation on Sundays, were visits from Little York; 
(my boyhood’s home at the mature age of nine), 
to the other mining villages a few miles away. 

To the east, the terrific gorge of Bear River 
showed across its pine-clad slopes the few strag- 
gling houses of Dutch Flat, in Placer County. 
Westwardly, the wild crags of Steep Hollow 
with its sheer descent, separated us from Red 


THE PASSING SHOW 


141 


Dog, the more pretentious hamlet of the three. 
It was here that Ernest Zaph, a respectable 
and kindly German, with a bustling, buxom, 
middle-aged “frau”, had established a nonde- 
script place of entertainment for man and beast. 
Hotel, bakery, restaurant, stable, and an “in- 
cipient brewery,” were hailed as features of a 
dazzling enterprise. Neat “Frau Zaph” bustled 
around, the queen bee of the hive, with watch- 
ful eye; while good man Zaph, with sturdy 
sprightliness, and solid German “horse sense,” 
was liked by all and molested by none. 

Even in the swaddling clothes of its infancy, 
“Red Dog” was proud of the foreign looking 
little arbored garden of “Father Zaph.” He 
was ever putting in his Sunday leisure at imitat- 
ing some of the “Volksgartens,” the out-of-door 
features of his distant Vaterland! All indicated 
prosperity ; and the sound of quarrel and the hand 
of violence were foreign to his hospitable doors. 

The fairy sprite, and guardian angel of this 
place, was sweet “Katie Zaph,” a brown eyed 
little Deutcher maiden of fifteen, whose wonder- 
ing baby eyes had first opened on the distant 
Rhine. She was already a “Pioneer,” as Zaph 


142 


THE PASSING SH01V 


had, (with rare foresight), posted at once to 
California from New York in 1849. German 
like, “Frau and Kind” went with him. She 
was not the placid type of “peasant girl, with 
deep blue eyes.” No! Her dark brown hair, 
and tender dark eyes spoke of a dashing Hun- 
garian type of beauty. Her rich lithe figure told 
a story of the ozone laden breathings of that 
crisp Sierra air, fragrant with its rustling pine 
needles. 

Our only mountain flower of note, in Nevada, 
was this one sweet wild rose; and a wild rose 
indeed was “Katie,” now blossoming out into 
delicate beauty alone, in that humble home nest 
on the “Ridge.” There were several other fam- 
ilies at Red Dog. A little roomful would gather 
in the evenings, while the Zaphs sang in uni- 
son, to their battered zither, a relic of home. 
Crowds of hardy miners essayed these “folk 
songs” with accordion and other picked up ac- 
companiments. 

I saw “Katie” in trips to Nevada at rare inter- 
vals, with my father. I had a saddle mule of 
unerring surety of foot, and even then, could 
ride like an incipient cowboy. I worshiped from 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


143 


a distance the lovely, modest, and kindly “Kittie 
Zaph,” the bright particular star whose name 
was known from Illinoistown to the Summit. 
Iowa Hill and Marysville hailed her as the “Pride 
of Nevada County.” Many a nugget of value, 
and several octagonal slugs of dull yellow gold 
(each good for $50. the world over), had been 
handed to the pretty child by admiring miners. 
They had nothing but gold to give. Good 
Mother Zaph kept this snug little nest egg of 
Kittie’s presents laid away with true German 
prudence. 

“Captain Bill” and “Captain Johnson,” the re- 
spective chiefs of the then still numerous and 
powerful Yuba and Feather River Indians, sup- 
plied the little white maiden with berries, the 
rich, wild yellow plums, and live pets like the 
gray squirrel and the frisky stone rabbit. 
Many a knightly plumed mountain quail did they 
snare for her. These peace offerings were sup- 
plemented by strings of glistening trout, with an 
occasional fat buck for Father Zaph, who had 
tact enough to hand over a blanket now and 
then, with a toss of fire water to the red chiefs. 

Well do I remember the pride with which old 


144 


THE PASSING SHOW 


Captain Johnson, (so nicknamed) would beat his 
breast, and describe how “Captain Johnson 
killum bear.” Weirdly would he imitate the 
antics of the clumsy, ferocious grizzly. Alas 
for the kindly red men of the early days; they 
are all gone ! So in this queer nest of self gov- 
erned men, some wild and desperate in a land of 
untamed nature, and lonely beautiful mountain 
wilds, grew and thrived this sweet, modest girl, 
unharmed and unspoiled by these dangerous sur- 
roundings powerless as yet to soil her innocent 
budding womanhood. 

As unconscious of her beauty as the old 
Spanish Padres were of the golden treasures 
under their feet, or the red Yuba Indian of the 
glittering gilded grains he unconsciously played 
with — she was a type of the Californian girl of 
those earlier days. Well did the good practical 
parents watch over their only nestling. 

It cannot be wondered at, when it was noised 
through our four camps that “Long John Duffy 
of Waloupa” had a fiddle, and deftly could he 
play it; — that Nell Hicks of Little York also 
owned a flute, which was a trusty college friend, 
and realizing the fact that several Mexican 


THE PASSING SHOW 145 

guitarists were available, there was “music in the 
air.” It was proposed on Thanksgiving Day, 
1852, to concentrate the youth, manhood, and 
all available womanhood of the neighboring 
camps, at Red Dog, where turkey shooting, 
racing, and various raffles, were to fill up the 
day’s delight. 

A grand ball and supper at Zaph’s hotel, was 
to crush the inhabitants of Nevada and Grass 
Valley with harmless envy. It was hoped these 
inferior “burgs” would never after socially lift 
their diminished heads. As far as this deponent 
knoweth, they never have! Selah! 

The agglomeration of the aforesaid musical 
talent, and much running to and fro, and sly 
planning, caused the trails to be covered early 
on that auspicious day with footmen and 
mounted cavaliers. Sundry most reliable mules, 
well known for their patient kindness, bore the 
treasures of our womanhood from the distant 
camps. Pretty Mrs. Sunderland' from Rem- 
ington Hill, an acknowledged star, sundry 
young women, and several hardy matrons were 
artfully gathered up. They produced various 
faded bits of antique finery; which showed that 


146 


THE PASSING SHOW 


woman’s wit and power of pleasing can over- 
come an entire absence of “Worth ’’and “Pingat.” 
Numbers of these ladies wisely arrived the day 
before! Hospitable Red Dog opened, metaphor- 
ically, its arms and embraced the “ladies” and 
the occasion. 

Poor Ned Boland, a Trinity College man, was 
the Master of Ceremonies. Well did he acquit 
himself, for it was before the day of the “only 
Ward McAllister,” and our four hundred, was a 
“select Forty.” It’s many a year Ned’s bright 
blue Irish eyes are dim in death; his brown curls 
lie matted on his pallid brow, under the hillside 
gravel. By his lonely grave, the traveller’s foot 
to-day would never stop! Forgotten and un- 
marked, it is where the distant ripple of Bear 
River, and the singing of the tall pines murmur 
the Celtic wanderer’s weird requiem. Ned, (God 
rest his soul), was in his glory when this day’s 
festivities were over. That ball was opened in 
a Chesterfieldian manner by our only acknowl- 
edged master of the “social arts.” He was 
vaguely supposed to be a “gentleman.” Even 
then and there, the fluctuating, invisible “social 
line” was drawn, excluding those who were “out 
of society.” 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


147 


The day’s social excitements weeded away 
the most pronounced devotees of chance and 
drink to their distant haunts. No casual fra- 
cas of note occurred. Only those who as- 
sumed a certain decency, befitting a worthy 
woman’s society, had the temerity to appear. 
With some artful manipulation, our “undesira- 
ble citizens” were excluded, or led off in the 
centrifugal paths of their favorite weaknesses. 
As one of the few lads near, and a member of a 
family circle, I had been tricked out in my very 
best, by the kind hands of a dear mother. I was 
proud as a king when I trotted my big Kentucky 
mule “Frank” over the little plaza of Red Dog. 

Sure was I of a warm welcome from “Mother 
Zaph.” I wondered how the handsome, dark- 
eyed little “Goddess of the Ridge” would look 
dressed for the great party. Wondrous was the 
exodus from “Little York,” as we of that “burg” 
were sworn friends of the denizens of “Red Dog.” 
Both camps jointly scorned the dwellers higher 
up the Ridge as out of the swim . Our immense 
local interests were the same, viz. — the improve- 
ment of the main trail from Nevada City across 
the county, via Red Dog and Little York, to 


148 


THE PASSING SHOW 


Iowa Hill, Dutch Flat and Downieville. I was 
not disappointed as to Kittie’s appearance when 
I saw her, “in private view” after supper. Hand- 
some Harry West, the pony expressman, had 
ravaged the slender supplies of Nevada and 
Grass Valley for “our Katie’s” toilet. Bluff 
John Allinger, the rich German freighter, “spread 
himself” at Auburn in the selection of presents. 
Money had been used with no sparing hand. It 
was even rumored that Sacramento had been 
laid under contribution. Now, all of this was 
most delightful. “All was right as right should 
be.” 

Alas! Little York had two defiant delegates 
representing an “impending crisis,” which came 
only too soon, as a result of f his kindly meeting. 
It was most inopportune that Dick Fisher and 
Tom Galt should have both decided to attend 
this great social re-union. The absence of either 
might have prevented the culmination of a cold 
aversion, such as two men in high youth, health, 
and courage may silently take up for each other. 
These two black clouds lowering on our social 
horizon, had silently hovered long near each 
other, and that most ominously ! They were sur- 


THE PASSING SHOW 


*149 


charged with the pent up emotional electricity 
of opposite characters! 

Sweet Katie Zaph’s innocent eyes were fated 
to kindle the spark, drawing out the deadly bolts 
from the darkness. Fisher was a tall, dark, 
graceful New Yorker, a young milesian graduate 
of the then famous volunteer Fire Department. 
His red shirt, black trousers, and high topped 
boots with red fronts, sporting a gilt shield, were 
his well known Sunday uniform. This was 
touched off by a loosely knotted black silk hand- 
kerchief and a sombrero, which supplanted per- 
force the shiny “tile” of the old bloody “Sixth 
Ward.” A trusty right bower and decorative 
article, was his tried navy five shooter, worn in 
a belt with a rich Spanish silver clasp. It was 
an open secret that several crosses on its stock 
were outward and visible memorials of gentlemen 
whom he had casually differed with, and of 
whom it might be said “They are not lost, but 
gone before.” 

Fisher was not a “bad lot” save when the ex- 
cellent Pelvoisin cognac, which he quaffed irreg- 
ularly to excess, loosened his gifted tongue. 
Then his Hibernian descent was manifest by an 


150 


THE PASSING SHOW 


unfortunate readiness in sudden quarrel. With 
all this, he was not too disreputable — something 
of a miner — not professionally a gambler — gen- 
erous and quick — never overbearing when sober, 
and about as good as the average “boy of the 
Bowery.” He lived under conditions turning 
many a wiser man’s head. Kindly and cheery, he 
was a typical hero to me, then a callow boy. 

I had an immense admiration for his shining 
merits; for both faults and virtues were con- 
spicuous in his strangely moulded character. 

Quite another man was Tom Galt. A Ten- 
nessean of twenty-eight to thirty years of age; 
he was lithe, sandy, gray eyed, cool and quiet. 
Strangely self contained, he was a man of rare 
determination. Keeping his own counsel, he 
had acquired some good claims which he worked 
with native wit and judgment, and yet with an 
entire lack of the business grip and dash known 
to men farther north in birth. Too cold and 
cautious for habitual excess, when he took a 
hand at poker, he was there , till the last ounce 
of dust had been won or lost. Silent alike in 
winning or losing, his skill spoke of many trips 
on the old “Mississip,” He quaffed his fiery 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


151 


bourbon in a deliberate manner, showing his 
baptism in “Kentucky’s silver stream.” He was 
not disliked; for no one avoided him. He was 
not feared for men feared nothing human in 
those days. He cleft his way through our little 
social wilderness as he threaded the tangled 
bushes on his proverbial hunting jaunts; ever 
parting the crowd right and left, as he strode 
onward with his steadfast eye fixed on his game 
He came from a fairly decent family of middle 
rank Southern planters. His early education 
culminated in a perfect knowledge of cards, 
horses, and the rifle. His quiet code was “The 
South, right or wrong.” It was in the early ante 
bellum days. The spirited and loquacious Fisher 
was as game a “Free Soiler” as the other man was 
bitterly “Pro-Slavery.” Now, it was not aston- 
ishing that our wiseacres looked forward to some 
day when circumstances would throw these men 
of different types and equal courage against each 
other. Old hands predicted that Dick's impet- 
uosity would be a fatal defect before the cold 
prudence of the other. His Irish wit alone 
favored him “on the first jump.” They had 
passed each other tranquilly in a well known 


152 


THE PASSING SHOW 


but quiet aversion, for nearly a year, when this 
brisk early winter afternoon led them to the 
neighboring village — on pleasure bent. 

When all was in readiness for the ball, the 
Grand March was sounded by the nondescript 
band. The cleared dining room of Zaph’s Hotel 
was filled with a good humored throng led by 
Father Zaph. His good frau blazed conspicuous 
in garb strangely reminiscent of distant Germany. 
With the adaptability of frontier american as- 
semblies, all proceeded to join in the unwonted 
pleasure of a real “Grand Ball” in those distant 
Nevada hills. It was known that a twelve o’clock 
supper was the culminating pride of the culinary 
genius of the good frau. Success was voted from 
the very first quadrille! “Squire” Cozzens, Doctor 
Lively of Missouri, his confrere Doctor* Lefebre 
of Paris, familiarly known as “Frenchy,” “Col- 
onel” Howard, (late of Virginia), Ned Gaylord, 
the popular cashier of a large business, (and 
vaguely reported to be really “reading law”) were 
the male stars. 

All the local swells of rank, wealth and pre- 
cedence were on hand. It would be invidious 
to name over the ladies who graced that yet un- 


THE PASSING SHOW 


153 


forgotten “ball.” They were one and all eagerly 
welcomed. Partners were gallant and only too 
willing. Not a wall flower wilted in any corner. 
Dimity was at a premium. Many really present- 
able young men appeared. Ned Boland had 
diplomatically named a “Committee of Arrange- 
ments,” which embraced cool and highly respect- 
ed representatives of all the different camps. 
But it was sweet Kitty Zaph, the wild Rose of 
the Ridge, whose fresh and blooming loveliness 
created the sensation of that memorable evening. 
In white swiss muslin, with flowing ribbons and 
an amber necklace, real kid gloves, and dainty 
boots, the Pride of the Camp queened it gra- 
ciously over many warm and loyal hearts. She 
moved with the “unworldly-wise” innocence and 
frank wonder of a young girl who dimly realizes 
for the first time that “she” is sought as a beauty, 
— a fact until then not fully realized by the child. 
“Child, child no more!” says the great Schiller; 
and Katie Zaph’s brown eyes were never again 
filled with an untroubled girlish frankness; after 
this night when she was made to see that all 
men eagerly sought her smiles, and many fain 
would win her. 


154 


THE PASSING SHOW 


Tom Galt whs in the room with his coterie 
of rough border friends. It was not long until 
he singled out the cynosure of all eyes. With 
his cool directness, he made his way at once to 
her, and in default of programme, secured a 
promised quadrille. He aspired not to the more 
ambitious Polka, Mazurka, Varso-vienne, or Hop 
Waltz. The days of the “Deux Temps, Lancers, 
and Boston,” were far away in a dim future! 
The “York” was a maddening distant comet! 

It could only have been a little snarl in the 
web. spun by the Fates which brought Dick 
Fisher, radiant in superior beauty of person, and 
arrayed in “raiment of price,” to the pleasant 
ball-room at this juncture. Richard had accepted 
the local hospitalities of some of his many 
chums. His heightened color, ^sparkling eye, 
and undisguised swagger told the tale of oft 
pledged bumpers. An adjoining ante-room and 
the hotel bar offered him at once temptation and 
excuse. His visits to the shrine of Bacchus had 
been frequent ! It requires no power of divination 
to explain the ominous muddle in which himself, 
Tom Galt, and sweet Kitty Zaph were soon em- 
broiled about that fatal quadrille first promised 
to Galt, and later claimed by Fisher. 


THE PASSING SHOW 


155 


As a lad I was wandering around the room, too 
young to dance, but petted by all. I had the 
usual fortune of a boy — always turning up, (like 
“our reporter”), on the spot. I roamed around 
and feasted my eyes upon darling “Cinderella 
Zaph.” For one bright lovely night she reigned 
a social queen, next day to be the useful little 
home bird and helpful daughter of a thrifty 
house. A few bitter words from Galt, whose 
gray eyes flashed yellow in his suppressed rage, 
some voluble epithets from Dick, and a frightened 
retreat of the timid girl, were the results of this 
fatal mischance. Was it growing womanly in- 
stinct, or her girlish second sight, which showed 
her an open grave between her and the quadrille, 
which she never was to dance with either of 
these enemies? Quick eyes were on this unto- 
ward rencontre. Several resolute members of 
the “Committee” at once quietly suggested to 
both men, (who were now angrily glowering at 
each other) a removal of their personal discus- 
sions to the outside. It was only a few minutes 
later that sounds of a scuffle, the crash of broken 
glass, and the dull noise of a falling body, told 
the story of grave troubles. The male guests, 


156 


THE PASSING SHOW 


with prophetic instinct, crowded thickly around 
the open doors leading to the wine room. But the 
frightened fairy princess fled away to the lower 
part of the ball-room. She was now securely 
moored under the protecting social presence of 
several matrons; like a dainty yacht resting 
under the guns of several frigates and a neat 
corvette or two. I darted out of a side door. I 
saw Fisher struggling wildly in the arms of sev- 
eral friends. His fine face was distorted with 
the maddest anger. Several slight cuts on his 
brow and clean chiselled features told of the 
shattered drinking glass thrown with wicked aim 
by Galt, which answered Fisher’s rash verbal 
insult. 

Galt was slowly rising to his feet, with his 
lips bleeding from a straight knock down blow. 
Anxious friends, ashamed of this disgraceful row 
were eagerly restraining both. Between them 
(pistol in hand) the tensely strung statuesque 
form of Sheriff Cleveland loomed up. His brief 
rest at the hotel for a meal, while pursuing 
some mexican horse thieves, had left him the 
only man “heeled” in the room. “Gentlemen!” 
said he, in ringing tone, “Not now! Not here! 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


157 


The first man who lifts a finger is a dead man.” 
No one was eager to set himself up as a target 
for the dauntless Sheriff. It was known that he 
could always pick every pip out of the five spot 
of spades at twenty paces. Moreover, it had 
been a general matter of “noblesse oblige,” that 
no deadly weapons should be brought to the 
long looked for ball at Zaph’s. 

Quickly did Fisher’s friends get him out into 
the darkness, and over to the other side of the 
Plaza. Little outcry was made, for all felt the 
shame of such an incident of the happy evening. 
In fifteen minutes Tom Galt, with one trusty 
friend, who would not let him go alone, his set face 
somewhat marred and swelled, strode through 
the bar-room. He passed out without a single 
word, then mounted his mule and rode away 
with his chum, silently under the bright sparkling 
stars. The two grim riders threaded the dark de- 
files of Steep Hollow, and regained their cabin on 
the Little York ridge. Silent though he was as 
he departed, Galt’s cold cruel eyes blazed. His 
step was like the lithe panther threading the 
pathless woods ready for a spring! 

No one noticed me ) as the more staid portion 


158 


THE PASSING SHOP/ 


of the guests had not heard of this external 
trouble. The notes of the grand march for 
supper were now sounding merrily. Several 
wiseacres and “men of the code” calmly reasoned 
on the chances of the coming conflict. Not a 
soul doubted that at least one human life would 
be the penalty of this foolish quarrel. The bitter 
words, and mutual mad attacks loudly called for 
blood. The burning query was who would fill 
the next unmarked grave in Manzanita Row on 
the bleak hillside beyond Little York? Would 
the volunteer brethren of mercy have one or tzvo 
graves to dig? Would old “Liverpool Jimmy” 
(the only town joiner and carpenter) have one y 
or two rude coffins to make in a hurry? For 
all men, save horse thieves and Joaquin Murieta’s 
gang, got decent sepulture there, though from 
stranger, or even hostile hands. The exceptions 
(noted before) were left as food for the coyotes, 
or to dangle on an extra lariat from a convenient 
live oak. Said that fine old Virginia gentleman, 
Colonel Howard, (our general “all round” Solon), 
who practiced equally well at both of the local 
“bars,” while he stirred his toddy: “Gentlemen, 
I think Jimmy better fix a couple of boxes, for 


THE PASSING SHOW 


159 


Tom Galt’s a dead shot, and Fisher is mighty 
quick on the trigger.” 

Squire Cozzens, Doctor Lively, Harry West, 
and that olive-faced Louisiana gentleman, Andy 
Rutherford, (of large personal experience in such 
matters) supported this unchallenged dictum of 
our only “Colonel.” They all stood up then 
amicably in a row and pledged the renewal of 
the same “old assurances” (in a stately way) be- 
fore going in to join the ladies “at supper.” 

Merry was the party. Gayly the good cheer 
of Father Zaph disappeared. Little Kittie shone 
as “Queen of the Night,” under the fostering 
care of handsome Ned Boland — who smoothly 
prevented any general dispersal of the news of 
the fracas. 

The bright stars were sloping to the west — 
the ladies’ light feet were now weary — the cool 
breeze of early morn was sweeping through the 
fragrant pine branches before that memorable 
party broke up. Warm hearted greetings were 
exchanged, as the men peaceably scattered to 
their rest. The ladies, happy, tired, and flushed 
with triumphs as real as those of Newport or 
Tuxedo, sought the hospitable repose of Frau 


160 


THE PASSING SHOW 


Zaph’s upper floors. Our volunteer band alone 
remained in possession of the deserted supper 
room. They had received a general vote of 
thanks, and had settled down to a bounteous 
meal which might be either a late supper or an 
early breakfast. The robins were beginning to 
gayly twitter in the live oaks, when a couple of 
reserved baskets of unexceptionable champagne 
were discussed by the musicians. Father Zaph’s 
appropriate liquid recognition of the band’s 
artistic efforts was considered “the right thing 
at the right time.” 

Sweet Kitty Zaph was already sleeping the 
dreamless sleep of innocent girlhood, unthought- 
ful and ignorant that two human lives were put 
in bloody pawn for the sake of her bright eyes. 
She little thought that the shining silver waters 
of Bear River, tossing gayly from boulder to 
riffle, only separated by a couple of miles two 
desperate men, whose knotted brows and hands 
clenched in uneasy slumber, told of unconscious 
murder plots which were evolved even in sleep in 
their excited brains, heated with drink and in- 
flamed by the deadliest human passions, jealousy 
and unslaked revenge. 


THE PASSING SHOJV 


161 


Fearfully did I creep to a snug couch kindly 
reserved for me by the thoughtful Frau. The 
sun had climbed high in the blue heavens, and 
was sending splendid golden lances down deep 
through the blue haze far into the dim green 
reaches of the virgin forest before I ceased to 
dream of that great ball. I wandered yet with 
lovely Cinderella “Kitty” in her robes of state! 
My innocent boy heart was blithe and gay, 
as I woke to all the delicate beauty of that happy 
morning in the mountains. Even now when 
many long and weary years have passed, I some- 
times fancy what could have been the feelings 
of the two star actors of the last night’s pro- 
logue. They awoke, and coldly with fiendish 
deliberation swept away the peaceful dreams of 
night from maddened heart and busy brain, and 
prepared to hunt each other to the death. 

Did no dark shadow of the wing of the Death 
Angel swooping near, hover over them a mo- 
ment? Was it merely cold pride, or bitter self 
deceiving vanity that put away the thought of 
the open graves yawning before them? It was 
in the flush of early manhood counselled by the 
arch-fiend, that these two self-elected young 


162 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


gladiators sought to find each other on the old 
Plaza at Little York? It was reddened already 
with the heart’s blood of a score of similar mad- 
men! No one will ever know; for the lips of 
one are now sealed forever in death, and the 
aged survivor has never since referred to: 

“That day after the Ball.” 

ACT SECOND. 

THE TRAGEDY. 

Higher climbed the sun in the blue vaulted 
heavens. The great ball at Red Dog was a 
thing of the past. Before noon, the guests from 
outlying camps were all well on their way home- 
ward. Our tired but happy looking detachment 
of ladies was threading the trails towards their 
distant abodes. They were chattering merrily 
over the social successes of the past memora- 
ble, (never to be forgotten), night! In truth, 
it had been a means of cementing old and be- 
ginning new friendships; for cut off in that dis- 
tant land, woman leaned kindly on her sister 
woman. Men developed rapidly a comradeship 
true to the death, even if these pairings off were 




i 

THE PASSING SHOIV lOtf 

sometimes ill assorted. The last farewells had 
been waved to good Frau Zaph, beside whom 
stood the rosy blushing Katie. Her last night’s 
triumphs were still lingering in her shining eyes. 
The long dining-room was already given over to 
its pristine uses. 

In the “spiritual department, ” Father Zaph 
was dispensing the “stirrup cup” to scores of 
departing argonauts. All was quiet and peace. 
Kitty had forgotten, with girlish carelessness, 
the brewing of last night’s altercation. Only 
among the soberest denizens of the other side 
of the Plaza was the “Fisher-Gait” imbroglio 
discussed by calm judges. They were compe- 
tent from personal knowledge, and made pro- 
phetic by long residence. This hovering war 
cloud was not made a leading topic at Zaph’s. 
Etiquette and local pride forbade the dragging 
in of the only shade on the otherwise undimmed 
brightness of a unique social success. It was 
really the first of many merry after gatherings 
under that same homelike roof. 

A few magnates, whom we have named, lin- 
gered for an hour, in due regard of maturer 
years and their local dignity. Over some excep- 


164 


THE PASSING SHOW 


tionally well built up “restorers” they exchanged 
with nod and significant glance diverse opinions 
on the coming event. 

Many residents of Red Dog had found “busi- 
ness ”at Little York on this day. After a pause 
Colonel Howard, (who had been “out” in Vir- 
ginia, and pinked his man with punctilious cere- 
mony) suggested, “Gentlemen! Let’s make a 
move.” Then the friendly cabal broke up. Our 
men of mark disappeared leisurely down the pine 
nlad ridge towards Little York. 

The sunlight streaming over the little Plaza 
r>f Red Dog showed to the listless observer only 
a few mexican muleteers loafing in their vacuity 
of aimlessness. Around the corners were loungers 
and four frowsy indians sat playing “California 
Jack,” seated in the dust, with a greasy pack of 
cards, on a stolen saddle blanket. 

Red Dog had taken to itself its day of rest 
after this mad social whirl. Following the 
general current of exodus, this young narrator 
safely defied the dangers of trail and canon, and 
duly arrived at Little York in the early after- 
noon. Merely vague curiosity filled my boyish 
mind when I delivered the reins of my trusty 


THE PASSING SHOW 


1G5 


“Frank” at the store door in Little York to 
laughing Torn Shade. He was our Irish head 
packer. With the easy adaptability of his 
witty race he had dropped the man of war’s 
man in the lofty title of chief muleteer. He 
was the Mickey Free for J. E. Squires & Co. 
— the business house of which my father was the 
senior partner. 

The town was strangely quiet. Many stran- 
gers and visitors were idling aimlessly on the 
Plaza. Before the open saloon doors were knots 
of stalwart bearded men. They were calmly 
putting in their usual hard work at killing time. 
The argonaut realized early like the indian, 
that he “had all the time there was.” Why 
hurry? The golden harvest was under foot. A 
log cabin cost only a few days’ labor. A con- 
venient spring located the home. Timber and 
land were free to all. An axe, an auger, a few 
nails, a pair of hinges, were all the foreign arti- 
cles needed. Credit was a matter of course 
everywhere, ^//bought; some paid. No one 
ever asked the price. Locks and keys were un- 
known, for the local code, even for ten years 
after, permitted the weary wayfarer to enter any 


166 


THE PASSING SHOW 


miner’s lone cabin and freely cook a meal. 
Then one could rest, and go on unquestioned. 
I have heard a legend however that one recal- 
citrant was followed and shot in fair fight on the 
trail, for not washing the dishes, on leaving! 

Long years of frontier and even army life, 
have taught me since that men will make fair 
cooks, good rough and ready tailors, and able 
general-utility jacks of all trades; but yet have 
I to meet a man who did not wildly “kick” at 
washing dishes! 

Theft was unknown in those good old golden 
days. Only occasional awkward mistakes as 
to riding animals, left many a sly mexican, 
slinking indian, or reckless white man, swaying 
at the wind’s will on a rope, with “Horse Thief” 
neatly pinned on his breast. Gold was every- 
where, and easy to get. Riding animals were 
the “Koh-i-noors” of that olden time. 

It seemed to be a generally accepted idea of 
the local sages that Fisher and Galt would use 
the morning for their return and personal prep- 
arations for the inevitable duel.. Axiomatic 
was it also, that each would receive the brief yet 
pointed advice of devoted friends. Galt was 


THE PASSING SHOW 


167 


known by all to have made an open return to 
Little York. No one had seen Dick Fisher 
come back. However the twenty acre Plaza 
could be approached in any direction, from the 
long ridge. Dick might be preparing for battle 
in any friend’s cabin. That he would “show up” 
was as certain as that the great white silver stars 
would swing up over the wooded crests to the 
East at their appointed time. 

A slight shiver of anticipation, with the more 
peaceful, attested a general conviction that 
those gleaming stars would shine down on one 
or both of two spirited men, cold in death, be- 
fore their blue pathway had been transversed. 
The final settlement of personal dispute, was 
quick in those by-gone days. It relieved the 
high strung nerves of a partisan public. Eti- 
quette required all men to await the logic of 
events, and not to take sides. Actions , quick, 
not to be gainsaid, never to be undone, took the 
place of the absurd tom-foolery preparations for 
“affairs of honor” in other communities. 

Rumor had it that Dick Fisher had finished his 
night at Red Dog in moody drinking with friends 
who endeavored vainly to dissuade him from a 


168 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


fight. His hot Celtic blood was up. No one 
dare restrain — none to molly coddle so deter- 
mined a man. Galt’s habitual prudence had 
tempered his behavior. First on the ground, it 
was accepted that he would take no chances 
against himself. He had not appeared on the 
Plaza up to my arrival. No doubt he had friends 
looking for Fisher’s moves in this lawless game 
of chess for two human lives. But one indica- 
tion marked the presence of Fisher in town. A 
friend had strolled in to our store and bought a 
new red overshirt, of Dick’s peculiar affectation. 
Quick Ned Gaylord caught the idea that Rich- 
ard’s exterior might still show the blood signs 
of the heavy drinking tumbler smashed on his 
forehead in the affray at Red Dog. 

I was bustling curiously around the old store 
as usual. It was strongly built of heavy squared 
logs pinned together, with a storehouse in rear, 
and a really commodious family residence. It 
(with its outlying sheds and stables) was the 
general headquarters of the business respecta- 
bility of the town. An immense stock of all 
useful articles of every kind, filled its capacious 
interior. The demands of an outlying popula- 


r 

THE PASSING SHOIV 169 

tion of some five thousand, were for any articles 
from a needle to a gold watch. Every reason- 
able want for use, comfort, or mining, could at 
once be supplied; save liquors or wines, which 
the firm declined to handle. Fifty pack mules 
with a score of attendants, distributed these 
goods on regular trips to outlying camps as far 
as twenty miles away. A regular freight train 
of these indispensable animals brought the stock 
from lllinoistown. The necessary evolution of 
California communication, has been the trail and 
pack mule, — the wagon road and prairie schoon- 
er, — then that last touch of daring genius, the 
mountain railroad. Shall it be the flying air 
ship? Who knows? “Esperons!” 

Four o’clock arrived. Nothing disturbed the 
quiet of the golden afternoon hours. Only the 
soothing tinkling of distant mule bells from the 
straggling herd grazing on the flats beyond the 
town, floated on the air. The discordant chat- 
ter of a blue jay, curious and thievish, fluttering 
over the Plaza in search of the ripened pine 
nuts on the adjoining trees, alone broke the 
calm. Across the deserted square suddenly 
strode one of Tom Galt’s nearest friends, with 


170 


THE PASSING SHOW 


a long rifle on his shoulder. He quietly entered 
our store. The circle around the great four foot 
stove made way for the new-comer; who leaned 
his gun against the wall in a convenient corner. 
He leisurely made some trifling purchases. I no- 
ticed with youthful curiosity the mottled yellow 
stock, and the silver mountings of the heavy 
muzzle loading “Mississippi” rifle. It was easy to 
see by the bright gleam of the copper Ely cap 
under the hammer, that it was freshly loaded. 
Such a thing as wonder at a man carrying arms, 
was then unknown. I wandered out on the 
broad six foot porch in front of the store. I 
childishly watched a band of the great Califor- 
nian vultures wheeling their airy graceful circles 
high above me in the thin clear air. They were 
far beyond the crested notches of the ridge six 
thousand feet over our heads. A few moments 
after, I noticed Tom Galt, his gaunt, lithe figure 
erect, coolly walking with energetic yet unhast- 
ened stride, along the north side of the square. 
Several little groups hastily opened, but he 
passed on silently, as usual. He was calm and 
unbending. Turning down the west side of the 
enclosure, he walked directly to our wide front 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


171 


entrance. Its heavy iron studded doors were 
swung wide open. His face was calm, only a 
few cuts, and slightly swelled lips, showed the 
damage caused by the heavy blow received from 
Fisher the night before. The strong double 
arch of his clenched teeth had saved him. 
Never to the right or left did he turn his head, 
as he passed the Magnolia Saloon, next door. 
There a knot of curious loungers eyed him keenly 
as he entered the one respectable business em- 
porium of our “burg.” With the frontier expe- 
rience of late years, I can appreciate the general 
public disappointment. True, it was a “show 
up,” in style, and (from a technical stand point) 
he was the first to “shy his castor into the ring!” 

Still, the etiquette of these delicate mat- 
ters demanded of him before his victory might 
be styled complete, a carelessly appearing, 
yet studied, visit to every open place of resort 
in town. After this if his enemy did not appear, 
the “white feather” would be adjudged by all to 
the absentee. 

It puzzled old Colonel Howard, who tugged 
at his gray mustache nervously, as he winked 
through the door to “Natchez Joe” an order for 


m 


THE PASSING SHOJV 


a duplication of his favorite Tennessee toddy. 
“Strange! I don’t ‘sabe’ this!” mused the old 
war horse, as he turned in, to put his favorite 
beverage, “where it would do the most good.” 

Galt had quietly taken the seat at the stove 
(first offered to his friend), who lingered still over 
his purchases. As he apparently wore no belt, 
or revolver, his attitude was that of peace. A 
loose dark sack coat hung on his spare frame. 
With his chair angled toward the door, he sat 
silently looking at the oblong patch of blue sky 
visible through that frame. Calm, and coldly 
silent, he watched like an indian on guard. The 
half dozen clerks busied themselves with the 
dozen or more customers at the long counters. 
There was no ominous sign to disturb the brood- 
ing peace. Yet, there was that forty calibre 
loaded rifle carelessly leaning in the corner 
behind the stove! 

Tom’s proximity to that gun, was only noticed 
by one experienced and observant lounger. He, 
made wise by the past affrays, rose and bought 
a plug of Peach Brand best Virginia; quietly he 
then sauntered out, saying nothing to any one. 
He dispassionately remarked afterwards: “I 


THE PASSING SHOW 


173 


wasn’t hunting no enmity with no one.” The 
quiet refuge taken by Galt in the only place in 
town where quarrel was frowned down, or reso- 
lutely stopped, had disarmed apprehension. The 
great store doors were always quickly closed and 
barred, if quarrel was imminent; and only 
opened when the social atmosphere had cleared 
up. 

Now, I had gone into the residence annex, 
and returned towards the front wareroom, when 
my quick eye caught the crimson flare of a red 
shirt at the door. Crash! Bang! followed like 
one! two! The lazy loungers dropped prone on 
the floor. The terrified clerks darted in fear 
behind bags and bales. There, Dick Fisher’s 
tall form was looming full through the smoke 
floating in the room, as in a framed tableau! 
Galt sprang up, dropping the smoking rifle from 
his quick hands. He had jumped to his feet, 
and fired like a flash, the instant that he saw 
th.d crimson breast. Had his watchful friend 
made him a mute signal? No one will ever 
know. Was it that deadly gray eye whose light- 
ning telegraph brought his overstrained nerves 
to instant action? BANG! like a cannon, came 


174 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


the second shot from Dick’s pistol at the door! 
Horror-struck, in boyish ignorance, I was rooted 
to the spot. I could see Fisher reel and stagger 
weakly, as Galt leaped, tiger-like, towards the 
door. His steady hand had jerked, with the 
speed of thought, a “sawed off” heavy Navy 
revolver from that innocent looking right hand 
coat pocket. Firing as he sprang, I could not 
hear the repeating shots, for they were too 
quick for my ear. All I remember was the only 
words spoken in this grim duel to the death. 
“You will have it! will you?” hissed by Galt, as 
he threw his left arm heavily against poor reeling 
Dick’s breast. Shoving out his right hand, he 
fired directly into the heart of the wounded man, 
the last barrel of his weapon. Down like a tree 
fell poor Dick, his handsome head hanging help- 
lessly over the edge of the porch. Galt sprang 
back, pistol in hand, and gazed calmly at the 
face of the dying man. I ran for the door in 
sudden panic! It was first blood for me! A 
horrid fascination seized me, for the outside 
saloon bystanders had caught Galt, now pale 
and limp, but unhurt. I gazed timidly on the 
dying man. 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


175 


The affrighted clerks and inmates of the store 
raised Fisher, who was now gasping wildly. His 
glazing eyes rolled feebly. For the first time in 
my life, I saw the hot red heart’s blood oozing 
from the torn mangled breast of a man in the 
agonies of a violent death. Alas! not to be the 
last time, though! 

Ned Gaylord, (calmer than any one), bent 
over Fisher, who essayed a last word. Ned 
leaned over the dying fireman, who struggled to 
point, with stiffening finger at his stern faced 
enemy, now gazing vacantly on his bloody work. 
What that last message was, will never be known 
on earth; as a sudden drop of the handsome 
head told that the troubled spirit had fled! 
Those lingering words were carried to the great 
bar of the Almighty, if accusation was their 
burden. Still that stiffening finger feebly pointed 
at the man whose hand had dealt the fatal 
wounds. In long later years, I know that finger 
points still in the lonely silent night, at the 
miserable man whose hand will never again be 
free of the awful burden of a brother’s blood. 
Sad victory, indeed! Sadder still poor Dick 
Fisher’s untimely end! 


i?6 


THE PASSING SHOW 


“Gentlemen!” said the grave voice of Colonel 
Howard, “This is a bad business! Mr. Galt! 
You will consider yourself under arrest.” The 
Colonel, (who had dignity and experience enough 
in himself, to supply the entire governmental 
machinery of a state), appointed, at once, four 
resolute men to guard Tom Galt. Galt mutely 
submitted to search. The criminal was placed 
in a heavy log, powder magazine crib. He was 
carefully guarded by two watchful men, armed 
with the ever present “navy.” Not a word 
escaped h^ compressed lips. A mounted mes- 
senger, dashod hastily off for Sheriff Cleveland, 
towards Dutch Flat. This was a “cause celebre.” 
The Sheriff was found on his return from his 
quest for the horse thieves he sought, as they 
had been opportunely caught and lynched on 
Bear River. 

This murder was a notable case for the County 
Court at Nevada. To the keen eyed Sheriff, was 
Tom Galt delivered, leaving next day under 
strong escort for Nevada City. But two short 
days from the time when the merry music 
sounded in Zaph’s dining-room elapsed, till Galt 
sat there again at a side table, under guard, tak- 


THE PASSING SHOW 


111 


ing a lonely meal, as a felon, in sorrow and bit- 
terness. Kind Mrs. Zaph, (her apron at her 
eyes), bewailed with tears the duel following the 
ball. Fair frightened Katie stole a distant 
glance at the back room at the murderer, then 
she ran up to her own little nest, to cry as if 
her heart would break, She was a child no 
more! “The fatal gift of Beauty !” 

All that was left of poor Dick Fisher, was 
lifted to a table in a side room. Several decent 
men, grave in the presence of sudden death, 
watched over the tenantless shell of the daunt- 
less adventurer. It was a local pride that he 
had “died like a man, with his boots on.” 
Strangely enough, his now useless pistol had 
disappeared ! It was never dreamed that Dick 
would open hostilities in a crowded and peaceful 
room. No one seemed to have an accurate 
knowledge of the details of this bloody duel. 
The inmates were not looking at the open door. 
The outsiders could not know what went on 
within. Fisher’s revengeful friends went as far 
as even to claim that he had never fired at all. 
It was found that he had the rifle ball wound, 
(the largest), in his heart. The two pistol 


178 


THE PASSING SHOW 


wounds were within two inches. The poor 
fellow had made a carefully studied toilet for 
this last public appearance. I was child enough 
to wonder who would get his neat boots, with 
those beautiful red morocco tops. I craved 
them for the gaudy gold shields printed on them. 

All the local men of mark, passed quietly 
through the room, uncovered. No one disturbed 
the white handkerchief, laid by a gentle woman’s 
hand over that handsome face, now so quiet 
and waxy in death. Decently composed were 
his limbs. The folds of the open shirt showed 
the cruel tearing wound of the heavy rifle, as 
well as the clean cut, round blue holes of the 
revolver balls. Dr. Lively, and his able French 
colleague, with professional gravity, probed the 
wounds, and exchanged a few truisms, making 
a brief “proces verbal” to be used before the 
trial court. By resolute action of the volun- 
teer management, quiet was restored. A “Com- 
mittee of Arrangements,” regulated ingress and 
egress through a side door. The public thus 
verified by open inspection the deadly aim of 
Tom Galt. Characteristic was the decent gravity 
of the onlookers. There was an entire absence 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


179 


of comment upon the affray. There lay the 
results, cold and stiffening. No one cared to 
trace the fatal quarrel back to fair Kitty Zaph’s 
sunlit eyes. Dick was withal a general favorite. 
His mercurial, generous Irish disposition made 
him warm, friendly and sociable. His past par- 
ticipation in similar fatal occurrences, was old 
matter. Blood easily paid all debts in Califor- 
nia then. 

Quiet evening shades settled over ridge and 
Plaza; dark shadows crawled up from wooded 
gorge and craggy canon. The soft sighing of 
the night breeze, and upborne murmur of Bear 
River, a thousand feet below, blended with the 
singing of the giant pines in a requiem for the 
dead miner. 

The only audible sound was a passing footfall, 
or the hollow rapping of “Liverpool Jimmy’s” 
hammer, as he nailed together the roughly im- 
provised coffin, in his shed, across the Plaza. 
Squire Cozzens had impanelled a Miner’s Jury. 
Their brief deliberations were recorded in the 
one bound book of the local Justice’s scanty 
archives. An entry of a small mule trade “with 
copies of the brands” was followed by the official 


180 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


statement that “Richard Fisher came to his 
death by gun shot wounds at the hands of 
Thomas Galt.” Prudential it was that Sheriff 
Cleveland had safely lodged his prisoner in 
Nevada jail. A circle of experts in the Mag- 
nolia Saloon adjoining, having listened to the 
Virginia Colonel’s dignified summing up, decided 
that Galt’s assumed indifference was the result 
of the coldest calculation. It was speedily found 
that Fisher had imprudently continued his liba- 
tions, and was thereby to a certain extent 
unmanned. This alone explained his missing 
his man twice, (if indeed he fired, as his friends 
denied). 

The ruse of the sawed off navy revolver, con- 
cealed in the side blouse pocket, was considered 
decidedly unfair. It showed undue and most 
artful preparation for deceit. The trick by 
which Galt’s friend conveyed the deadly rifle to 
its hiding place by the stove, was heartily con- 
demned by all. It was now apparent that Galt 
had in reality laid in wait where he could see 
his doomed prey, clear cut against the blue sky 
background of the open door. He was himself 
almost vailed in obscurity. Loud were the mur- 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


181 


murs from the queerly assorted assembly at these 
varied bits of sly trickery so skillfully employed. 
Galt’s personal bravery in the struggle seemed 
to be forgotten in the scorn of the means adopted 
to make the issue “a dead thing.” A “Dead 
Thing” it was; Lying cold and prone there on 
a table; covered now with a rough gray blanket; 
while the bright glittering stars swung to the west 
in silence over the blue mountain rimmed vault. 

Nothing was known of Dick’s immediate an- 
tecedents. No friend was able to kindly inform 
distant relatives, if any there were. Next day, 
the breast of the red hill side was opened. 
Manzanita Row had another fresh mound of 
clay. A goodly number of people attended the 
simple funeral services. Colonel Howard, the 
“Squire,” the two physicians, and numbers of 
the better people made a small procession wind- 
ing up the steep, lonely hillside. A few appro- 
priate and touching words were spoken by the 
kindly old Squire. The rattle of shining shovels, 
wielded by brawny volunteers, alone broke the 
nerve straining silence when the cortege un- 
easily separated. The drama of a wild life was 
ended. The “Exit of Dick Fisher” was a thing of 


182 


THE PASSING SHOJV 


the past, and the “Thin Curtain” veiled him from 
our gaze till Time shall give place to Eternity. 

Other events in the life of this long-forgotten 
town, soon chased these occurrences, from pub- 
lic memory. This sad story was only revived 
by a bitter legal fight at Nevada City on the trial, 
finally resulting in Galt’s acquittal. It was in 
this “cause celebre,” that young Gaylord won 
his legal spurs, as he died many years after- 
wards a distinguished criminal lawyer of the 
Golden State. 

The matter came back to old residents in 
1859, when on tearing down the crumbling store, 
in a straw mattress (which was being emptied) 
was found Dick Fisher’s faithless pistol. Three 
chambers were still loaded, and the other two 
were empty. Some friend, (thinking to get a 
quick advantage), had whipped it away, and 
slipped it inside the straw of the bed, afterwards 
sewing up the slit to prevent discovery. The 
ghastly relic was recognized by many eye wit- 
nesses. 

To-day, all the idle stranger would see of the 
theater of so many exciting and tragic events, 
“old Little York,” is the ragged naked skeleton 


THE PASSING SHOW 


183 


bed rock, where once was a populous town. 
Great mining operations caused that whole region 
to be washed off into the terrific gorge of Bear 
River. Manzanita Row went down with the 
rest, and the poor crumbling relics of mortality 
was borne away by the surging floods, down to 
the lonely canons and out into the turbulent 
waters of Bear River, thousands of feet below. 

The tall pines sigh no more on the old hills, 
all is devastation and change, and the passing 
traveller would little dream of the tragedies, and 
old time memories clinging around this “Lost 
Camp,’’ whose very foundations have, passed 
from sight away forever. 

And what of sweet Katie Zaph? I saw her 
long afterwards, a happy wife. Currents of life 
swept her far away from me for years. The old 
people went home to Germany, with a compe- 
tence, and have by this time, no doubt, wandered 
out into that Night which wraps old and young 
.alike in its shadowy bosom. 

It is strangely true that Tom Galt was lately 
alive in the Golden State, as cold, friendless as 
ever, craving no human affection; yet in his ad- 
vanced years I know he can still see that pallid 


184 


HE PASSING SHOW 


pointing finger, raised in mute accusation signa 
lizing before God and man: 

The Exit of Dick Fisher! 



AN AMERICAN LADY’S NIGHT 
RIDE IN ST. PETERSBURG. 


E were a congenial circle of intimates gath- 



YY ered in Mrs. Montgomery’s pretty haven 
of rest, bearing the suggestive title of the Rook- 


ery ! 


“I think nothing is pleasanter than a little 
chat to close the formality of a dinner, ” gai- 
ly remarked our hostess, as she took the place 
of honor at the pretty table with its dainty 
coffee service and a veritable Russian Samovar, 
hissing in readiness flanked with egg-shell china 
and an antique silver vase containing priceless 
overland tea. 

“Choose now your favorite potions! I am 
equally loyal to these !” merrily demanded the 
Queen of Hearts, as we fondly termed her. 
The three daughters of Eve present were tempt- 



186 


THE PASSING SHOW 


* 

ed by Lenore Montgomery’s renowned tea, the 
gift of a courtly Siberian Governor General. 
Two- of the three cavaliers chose the fragrant 
Mocha and Java compound. Our last convive 
Captain Arthur Dalyrymple of Her Majesty’s 
Dragoon Guards, quickly noted the old Russian 
tea glasses delicately engraven and set in an- 
tique shells of pre-Catherine hand chased silver. 

The guardsman adjusted his monocle with 
that nameless air so exasperating to an Ameri- 
can — so impossible to imitate. 

“I think I’ll go in for tea & la Russe,” he mur- 
mured in his not unmusical service drawl. “I 
never thought to see these old things in New 
York!” 

“Captain! The treasures of the world are at 
our beck and call!” laughed the merry hostess, 
as she deftly served the soldier, the fragrant 
amber tea with its slice of lemon. 

‘No end of a jolly place St. Petersburg,” said 
Dalyrymple. “ I was stationed there two seasons 
as Military Attache. Only one bother to me,” 
the pleasant Briton reflectively said. “Of course 
I was all right in society, and in the clubs and 
at the principal shops and resorts. My French 


THE PASSING SHl.IV 


18? 


and German helped me out everywhere. Nearly 
all Russians of rank speak English more or less 
well. But I am a great fellow to prowl around 
with the ^people of strange countries. In Russia, 
I found the very interesting daily life of the 
peasants and common orders unreachable, as 
these members of the useful classes only speak 
Russian. I had to carry a parchment slip with 
my name and hotel address in Russian as a safe- 
guard — when I wandered away in my lonely 
tours by day and night I was forced to take the 
first ‘isvostchik’ and exhibit my ‘sailing orders !’ 
— Then, by Jove, ” said the warrior, as he re- 
placed his precious tea glass. “Half the beggars 
could not read their own language! I finally 
picked up enough Russian to find my way 
around !” 

“lean fancy your varied embarrassments,’ 7 the 
vivacious hostess replied, “I myself had several 
strange adventures in my first Petersburg winter. 
Some of them were ludicrous and one I never 
will forget. Two winters spent in the Paris of 
the north in later seasons, made me “au fait” 
with the difficulties and even dangers of that 
first sojourn. I have always warned my country- 


188 


THE PASSING SHOW 


men going thither of the necessity of care and 
prudence in their off handed self confidence.” 

“You are very wise, I am sure,” the ex-attache 
replied. “But we dwellers in old Albion can’t 
for the life of us understand how American ladies 
can run around alone, all over Europe by day 
and night, taking all sorts of risks — of course 
it’s all pretty safe on the near continent, but in 
Russia, it’s another thing. Even in the better 
known countries — it’s rather bad form!” Daly- 
rymple’s voice softened into a whisper, and he 
bowed his curly head under the frowns of three 
bright eyed American queens. Sweet Flossie 
Fairfax, the bride of a year shook a rosy finger 
warningly at him, and the young Rosebud nest- 
ling under Lenore Montgomery’s outspread social 
wing cast reproving glances at her sworn knight, 
who contemplated (in his heart of hearts) an 
Anglo-American alliance. 

“Why, we just go everywhere — Captain, here 
— we know how to travel,” said the indignant 
Miss Juliet. 

“Precisely,” answered the immovable Briton. 
“I admit that you do know your own system, 
but abroad, especially in Russia, there are local 


THE PASSING SHOfV 


189 


customs, and special dangers which need careful 
consideration.” 

“Nothing ever happened to Mrs. Montgomery, 
I’m sure!” the defiant little beauty retorted. 
“Am I not right?” she said appealing to the 
amused hostess. “There’s no real danger, I am 
sure.” 

Judgment!” appealed the Guardsman. “I 
know Madame, you have been a world wanderer 
and that several of your foreign sojourns have 
been without your liege lord and master! Tell 
us your experience, pray!” 

A chorus of entreaty seconded the soldier’s 
plea. We were all in the mood. There could 
be no fairer Scheherazade than Lenore Mont- 
gomery enthroned upon her divan of state, with 
her fair face, lit up with deepest sapphire blue 
eyes and the wavy golden hair crowning her fine 
resolute beauty. A modern Venus of Milo, she 
was robed like a queen. On her beautiful neck, 
a superb necklace of four strands of matchless 
pearls gleamed in soft contrast to the sparkling 
diamonds flashing among the folds of a white 
gown of antique lace, the envy of her less favored 
sisters. 


190 


THE PASSING SHOW 


Toying with the favorite ivory fan, attached 
to her girdle, with a rich heavy twisted double 
cord of white floss silk, the fair chatelaine, re- 
plied: 

“Our knights may prefer the Havana to a 
Duenna’s stories, but I happen strangely to 
wear the very costume I wore that night.” 

“The story! The story!” was the unanimous 
vote of the “petite comite.” 

“I will relate the amusing features before I 
give you the ‘bonne bouche, ’ my pet ‘sensa- 
tional’ episode, said Lenore Montgomery. “I 
fancy I must yield to superior force. 

“In my first visit to St. Petersburg I was 
obliged to arrange some delicate personal matters 
involving the interests of a near and dear friend. 
My sojourn was delightful in the two earlier 
months of the season, as I was the guest of 
friends who were charmingly located, having an 
immense apartment, the entire second floor of 
one of the great granite palace-like structures 
which are characteristic of the metropolis on 
the Neva! Naturally, my circle extended, as I 
was warmly welcomed by the truly hospitable 
circle of the capital. Yet my stay was prolonged 


THE PASSING SHOW 


191 


by pleasure and business. I found the family 
system of Russian life to have its “desagremens. ” 
A very alert and most machiavellian tutor in 
charge of two fine boys about to enter the Corps 
des Pages, represented French, Spanish and 
Italian instruction. A cold merciless eyed 
blonde of a magpie disposition instructed the 
lads and a pretty girl of five, in English and 
German. We soon found that either from 
these, or the numerous domestics our business 
conferences, or thoughtless current remarks were 
reported and found their way to other and hos- 
tile circles. 

“Therefore I took a pleasant suite of rooms 
at the Grand Hotel de 1’ Europe on the Nevsky. 

“The bureau management was excellent, all 
the servants spoke French and I was mistress of 
the privacy of my daily life. My lawyer could 
confer in perfect freedom from chatter or spies 
and daily my friends equipage conveyed me to 
their residence for dinner. Our business was 
tabooed, as the Russian custom of tutor and 
governess dining with the family is awkward. 
It serves to improve the manners of the children 
and increase the respect of the aspiring young 


192 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


patrician children who are spoiled from the cradle 
by the slavish adulation of the servants. The 
carefully selected intellectual staff of a noble 
Russian family must be held above the status 
of mere service to ensure any favorable results. 

“My visits of ceremony and shopping excur- 
sions (for ladies shop even in the Czar’s land) 
were effected with the excellent carriages of the 
Hotel. I finally decided to engage for the three 
further months of my prolonged stay, an equipage 
of my own with a driver speaking French and 
German. 

“The immediate cause of this, was the singu- 
lar adventure of my attendance at a ball given 
by one of the queens of the Muscovite Four 
hundred. I was by this time very much at 
home, having made many friends and thanks to 
the gallantry of the Russian gentlemen, did not 
miss the wonted escort of my absent husband — 
at the almost daily fetes of the light-hearted 
golden ‘elegantes.’ 

“It was to be a superb affair and my friends 
were to meet me on my arrival. With my in- 
vitation, my former hostess enclosed a slip with 
the directions for the driver. Having finished 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


193 


a brilliant toilette, I entered my hotel carriage 
in the court, closed from the whirling snow of 
winter with its great double glass doors, and 
burying myself in furs and wraps, sank back 
as the vehicle dashed out into the keen night air. 
The sharp searching breeze penetrated the frail 
elegant glass front coupe as if its sides were 
paper. I was drowsy as we entered a splendid 
interior court, a stone angle of the splendid 
palace I sought. In the outer anteroom my furs 
and heavy wraps were carefully removed by 
skilful attendants. I then gained an inner room 
of safety, merging from the second chrysalis 
enfolding, and the gorgeous ‘swiss’ ushered 
me into the spacious dressing-room for ladies. 
Deft maids in attendance were eager in my 
service and I was now ready, in my ‘choicest 
plumage’ to meet my friends who were to be the 
‘guardian angels.’ .Waiting and futile inquiry 
tired me. When at the doors I had the fortune 
to observe several gentlemen already well known 
as guests at my friend’s house. A few words 
served to explain the dilemma. A courtly guard 
officer of the ‘Preobajensky, ’ one of the ‘Russian 
Cousins’ of my friend’s insisted on taking me in 


194 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


charge. These family relatives are numerous 
as the ‘Kentucky cousins’ of our own dear land 
and fully as chivalric. Piloted through a splen- 
did throng of dazzling beauties and superb men 
in their rich court, army and navy uniforms, 
with stars, orders and medals in the greatest 
profusion, it was like a fairy dream, this almost 
royal fete. ‘I will present you,’ laughed my 
stately body guard. ‘Alixe is always late, and 
she and Boris will arrive soon anyway. Mean- 
while, we will dance.’ I recognized several of 
my friends. I was a little nonplussed on my 
ceremonial presentation to the host, a wonder- 
ful example of decorated manhood and the brill- 
iant hostess, whose cordial welcome was tinged 
with just the faintest surprise. 

“This I forgot as ‘Cousin Alexis’ waltzed 
charmingly and I did not miss the absent chap- 
eron. I was soon surrounded by several gallant 
slaves all eager for the honor of dancing with 
the ‘Amerikansky Barm,”’ said the narrator, with 
a faint blush of pride, “but Cousin Alexis was 
most frequently ‘on duty.’ Entering heartily 
into the enjoyment of the hour, I was entirely 
at my ease. In a promenade, we were suddenly 


THE PASSING SHOW 


195 


interrupted by Major Lemacheffsky, a dashing 
hussar field officer, and my pet Russian. ‘Well! 
Madame, wonders never cease,’ said he, as he 
heartily greeted me. ‘You have played a very 
neat game of hide and seek with Boris and 
Alixe! They have even sent to your hotel for 
you. They were even anxious, foolishly anx- 
ious, ’ he rattled on, ‘but I must compliment 
Alexis Alexandrovitch! You will get a lecture 
from Alixe ! I did not know you were friendly 
with the Tchemaiefs. ’ I managed to stop the 
rattle brain long enough for a query. ‘And will 
they not be here soon? I have waited nearly 
two hours ! It was embarrassing, and only 
Alexis saved me from the fearful fate of a ‘wall- 
flower !’ 

“The Major’s ringing laugh rose above the 
dreamy strains of ‘Susser Veilchen. ’ Piloting 
us skilfully through the changing groups of merry 
dancers, the handsome Major greeted the charm- 
ing dark eyed hostess. ‘Madame la Princesse 
must excuse me if I deprive her temporarily of the 
presence of the Belle of the Ball. ’ I began to 
understand him. A few merry words in Russian 
completed his story and spared my blushes. 


496 


THE PASSING SHOW 


“With exquisite courtesy the laughing hostess 
said in her classic French, a winning smile on her 
rosy lips: 1 Madame! I shall only permit the 
Major to deprive me of your society long enough 
for a visit to the other ball , at which you may 
meet your relatives, and I have his promise to 
bring the whole party here for supper. Your 
fete is in the diagonal corner, the other court 
entrance of this huge old barrack ! I shall keep 
Alexis Alexandrovitch as a hostage, ’ with a 
merry nod, she floated away under the skilful 
guidance of the unrepentant Alexis! 

“Twenty minutes later, I was the center of a 
joyous group at the other festival, to which I 
was rightly bidden! My hostess Alixe with 
sparkling eyes, dancing in glee, related to the 
fair queen of the hour, the adventure and finished 
with a threat of socially boycotting cousin Alexis, 
who had seen through the little misadventure 
and mischievously decided to keep me under his 
especial suzerainty, thereby giving many friends 
a theme of wild gossip.” 

“I can’t say I blame him,” murmured the 
Guardsman as he gazed on the loveliness of the 
fair historian. 


THE PASSING SHOW 


197 


Menacing the Captain with her fan, Lenore 
Montgomery related the pleasant hour, under 
guard of the teasing Major, and the final feast of 
the whole circle at Ball No. one. “It was four 
o’clock when we sought our homes,” the chate- 
laine concluded. “I gained a delightful friendship, 
and Alexis was punished with a fine of taking 
us all to the ‘Island’ to hear the gypsies sing and 
mulcted in a supper for both hostesses. So the 
long hours from four in the afternoon till ten 
next day, are merrily passed on the Neva, in 
opera, or theatre, followed by dancing recep- 
tions and long suppers — as daylight in winter 
only lingers from io a. m. to 4. p. m. 

“The Hotel Bureau set aside a driver for me 
who spoke French and his first exploit was a 
brilliant one. 

“Invited a few days later, to an afternoon 
Bazaar, held by the Ladies of the Imperial Court 
for the orphans of the late war, I was anxious 
to attend. Several of the Grand Dukes, the 
Duchesses and even a possibility of the lovely 
Czarina’s presence made it especially tempting. 
Alixe was in charge of one of the, booths and, 
as her husband was a Chamberlain of the Czar, 


198 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


I was promised a presentation to the members 
of the Imperial family present. 

“Arrayed in my robes of state, suitable for 
such a function, I leaned back in my carriage 
and simply remarked to my coachman, proud of 
his French erudition: ‘Au bazaar!’ The 
bearded muscovite, in his long blue robes with 
silver bell buttons on all seams, and a royal 
golden beard flowing over his shoulders, tucked 
away his ample skirts, and bowed! 4 Oui! 
Madame!’ was his profound reply. 

“Whirling away like the wind, the fleet black 
Orloffs, in the fragile spider web like harness of 
round Russian leather cords pattered merrily 
over the wood pavement, with its snow banks 
shovelled to right and left. 

“It was three in the afternoon, and the gay 
throng were dashing along either in sleighs on 
the snow tracks left at either side of the carriage 
avenue, on the level streets, or speeding along 
in glass front coupes like my own. We drove 
into the court yard of a magnificent residence. 
Two gold banded ‘dvorniks’ sprang to open the 
door, as 1 prepared to descend. I was a little 
astonished at the absence of other carriages. 


THE PASSING SHOW 


199 


“Ushered into a splendid reception room. I 
found no guests into the preliminary disrobing 
of wraps. I began to be timorous. A brief 
effort exhausted my coachman’s French. He 
reiterated ‘Au Bazaar.’ With growing impa- 
tience I finally reached the end of my Russian, 
and with some indignation, sent my card, pen- 
cilling the name of my relative Alixe Trepoff. 

“In ten minutes, cap in hand, the gorgeous 
‘dvornik’ returned, with a mystified air. 

“Placing his hands on his breast, he mourn- 
fully replied ‘Niet in domo. ’ 

“Alas! I knew that meant, she was not there! 
With all a woman’s petulance, I regained 
back to the Hotel de l’Europe. The ceremon- 
ious clerk understood my dilemma, and most im- 
peratively thundered some forcible directions in 
Russian. My erudite driver hung his head as he 
turned to his box and swiftly bore me to the 
‘Salle de la Noblesse,’ where I was soon 
sheltered under the fair citadel of sweet Alixe. 
The man did not seem to know where he had 
been. I was naturally in the dark! 

“I was a happy woman as I parted from my 
gentle guardian and having basked in imperial 


200 


THE PASSING SHOW 


smiles was glad to accept an invitation to spend 
the afternoon hours next day and review the 
day’s pleasures with my relatives. 

“In the midst of a little circle of friendly ladies, 
while gazing from the windows at the grand 
scene of the Neva, and the grim fortress with its 
lofty spires, rising above the gorgeous church 
where the dead Czars sleep, I observed a mag- 
nificent equipage draw up before the entrance of 
the Trepoff mansion. 

“Within the splendid carriage sat a singularly 
handsome man in full court dress, blazing with 
stars, and wearing a brilliant crimson fez, its rich 
black silk tassel mingling with his dark hair. 

“A similarly dressed eastern officer sat by his 
side, only a little less gorgeous as to stars, 
orders, richness of curved sabre and depth of 
gold embroidery. 

“As they entered our court yar-d, and the great 
door clashed, Alixe cried gaily: ‘This is a great 
event! The Turkish Ambassador.’ 

“A feminine flutter of dismantled plumage an- 
nounced the general interest of the pretty com- 
panions of the afternoon. The solemn butler 
entered, bearing with dignity, two sets of cartes 



THE PASSING SHOW 201 

de visile, which he presented to the wondering 
Alixe. 

“‘Why! His call is also for you, Lenore, ’ she 
murmured in open eyed astonishment. ‘Where 
did you meet him? He is the greatest lion of 
our diplomatic corps and really disdains every 
one save the Czar himself, and the English Am- 
bassador. ’ 

“My answer was prevented by the arrival of 
the handsome oriental, followed by his stately 
attache. I gazed at the cards mechanically. 
The Ambassador not removing his fez, gazed 
admiringly at our circle of fair Frankish women, 
and pressing his gloved hand, with opened palm, 
to his forehead, then laid it solemnly on his 
heart. The same salutation was repeated to 
each of our little coterie. 

“He finished with respectfully kissing the hand 
of the hostess a la Russe. I marvelled at the 
superb diamond clasps of his collar of the 
osmauli and the flashing gems accentuating the 
star of the Medjidje. 

“His rich black eyes roved, with evident pleas- 
ure over the circle of unbelievers. In the most 
fluent French, he saluted Alixe — having courte- 


202 


THE PASSING SHOW 


ously awaited the seating of the ladies. His 
attach^, a type of the Turk £ la mode de Paris, 
remained respectfully standing behind his chief. 

“‘I hastened, Madame la Baronne, to acknowl- 
edge the esteemed honor of your visit and to 
place myself and my legation at your service.’ 
Such were the graceful words of the august 
diplomat. The unspeakable Turk ignored the 
evident surprise of Alixe, and continued in his 
well modulated flowing accents. ‘I beg that 
Madame la Baronne will also present me to 
Madame Montgomery who favored me also with 
a visit yesterday.’ 

“With burning blushes on my cheeks, I 
listened to these words, and failed not to note 
the significant glances of the spirited, dark eyed 
Russian beauties, who exchanged the most sig- 
nificant glances! 

“In Petersburg, the boudoir cabals revel in 
gossip too dangerous for court or club circles. 

“‘Your Excellency! I am sensible of the honor 
of your visit. Pardon me if I say, I am ignorant 
of having visited you personally. Allow me to 
present you to Madame Montgomery.’ 

“The ceremony was accomplished ! I felt my 


THE PASSING SHOW 


203 


self-control giving way and finally succeeded in 
pleasantly disclaiming a similar visit on my part. 
The rich lustrous eyes of the Oriental took a 
melancholy tinge as he gazed from Alixe to my- 
self in wonderment. 

“Retaining his stately gravity, he uttered a 
few words in Turkish. The handsome attach^ 
handed him a card. Bowing with his elaborate 
salute, the Ambassador presented the visiting 
card to Alixe with a faint smile. I could hear 
a subdued titter from some one of the vivacious 
Russians. 

“As Alixe handed it to me, her expressive 
eyebrows also raised in query, I recognized the 
card of the day before, sent to the Bazaar. It 
was my own, and Alixe’s name and title was 
pencilled thereon. I frankly explained the ap- 
parent mistake. Alixe restrained her laughter 
with difficulty for the dignity of the Ambassador 
seemed wounded. With perfect self-possession, 
he asked me one or two questions. 

“‘What did you tell your coachman, Madame? 
May I inquire?’ the Turk remarked with aplomb. 

‘“I said ‘Au bazaar !’ Excellency! The stupid 
man must have made a mistake!’ 


204 


THE PASSING SHOW* 


“A faint wintry smile played around his 
features as he rose and said quietly: 

‘“I understand thoroughly. I beg a thousand 
pardons. You said ‘Au bazaar.’ My name is 
‘Abezah Pasha,’ and I presume your man fan- 
cied you said ‘Abezah.’ I only regret that I 
was really not the object of your visit. I now 
understand all. I have the honor of knowing 
the Baron, your husband,’ said the courtly Turk 
to Alixe, ‘I will leave our cards for him. I 
came in person to offer my services, as a visit 
from two such charming ladies would be the 
event of one’s life in my own country.’ 

“His mournful air and perfect grace repressed 
the inward laughter of the dashing Russians 
whose eyes danced in glee. 

“Alixe was equal to the emergency. ‘My hus- 
band will personally visit you, your Excellency, 
and thank you for your cordial kindness. Mean- 
while, pray allow me to present you to my 
friends. ’ 

“The ‘entente cordiale’ was established and 
on a telegraphic signal from Alixe, an impromptu 
service of coffee, and the rarest cigarettes ap- 
peared. The distinguished attach^ was speedily 


THE PASSING SHOlV 


205 


at home with the muscovite ladies, and I could 
hear very merry allusions to the Harem life in 
the Bosporus and other social topics. The 
attach^ knew Paris and Vienna and was au fait 
with Frankish fin de si&cle persiflage. 

“When the evidently delighted Ambassador 
retired he said gaily: ‘I shall consult with the 
Baron and endeavor to have my revenge for 
my shattered romance. I shall give a little soirde 
and ask you both to receive the ladies for me. 
I can show you and your friends the finest shawls 
and embroideries in Russia!’ He spoke with 
some little pride. The representatives of the 
Sultan departed, in solemn grandeur and the 
really genial Turk was as good as his word. He 
gave a superb fete which only his modesty would 
be justified in designating as a soiree.” 

“I should like to be a Moslem Ambassadress,” 
said merry Helene Orloff to me as we left that 
scene of pleasure, “if the official was as charming 
as Abezah Pasha — only,” said the spoiled beauty 
with a toss of her proud head, “I should wish to 
have my pet Turk all to myself! He would have 
to omit the Harem and the other wives! I fear 
that would spoil the romance!” 


206 


THE PASSING SHOW 


“Well, I can’t say I see any horrors in this 
sort of thing,” softly cooed Dalyrymple. 

The face of the winsome hostess became 
graver. 

“I am going to give you a surprise,” she said 
lightly as the servants appeared and turned down 
the lights to a mere flicker. In a moment a 
huge salver with a bowl of flaming Russian 
punch was borne in. After its served and by 
the dim light the fair story teller concluded her 
narrative. 

“The day after the Ambassador’s visit, I per- 
manently engaged an excellent pair of horses, 
a carriage a la mode, and an experienced and 
reliable man who (though Russian) had driven 
for the American Minister. 

“It was now the dead of winter and the nights 
were piercing in their arctic rigors. The keen 
blasts cut like swords. Great wood fires in the 
square of the Grand Opera and on sheltered 
corners enabled hundreds of shivering wretches 
to avoid freezing. I marvelled at the hardy 
Russian porters, sleeping rolled up in their 
sheepskin coats on the doorsteps of the shops. 
Ladies with trebled veils and hooded ‘bashliks’ 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


20? 


of camels hair were bundled in the thickest 
furs. Roll after roll of outer wraps enveloped 
the richness of the ball or opera robe beneath. 
I wondered at seeing so many denizens of the 
city going around with bandaged faces, attesting 
their tenderness to neuralgic and other facial 
pains. A sentimental pity grew up in my bosom 
for these sufferers of all grades. I was not aware 
that the hardy Russians are accustomed to these 
minor annoyances and in the main are not 
seriously affected. My visit approached its 
closing days. The Ice King took a firmer grip 
of the Winter City. Huge Krupp steel cannon 
in the river batteries, split open, though swathed 
in straw and housed. Mountains of the fragrant 
birch wood in billet filled all the courtyards. 
The Neva frozen solid was covered with the 
temporary winter town on the ice where tem- 
porary booths assembled all the- floating adven- 
turers of the Empire. Dancing, drinking, and 
gaming reigned in this great bivouac on the ice 
ten feet in thickness. Skating, sleigh racing 
and ice mountain sliding amused thousands. 

The dangerous and desperate thronged into 
the city and in the enormous basement retreats 


208 


THE PASSING SHOW 


of even the Winter Palace, hundreds of unknown 
wretches huddled enjoying the waste warmth of 
the huge Imperial caravansera, and eking out the 
money by shovelling snow. Society took on a 
frantic gaiety ! I was wearied of the dashing 
freedom of midnight suppers and friends calling 
for tea at two o’clock in the morning. 

“By this time, I knew fairly well the principal 
features of the great imitation Paris. One last 
great ball, given by the famous Preobajensky 
Guard, alone remained to round out my experi- 
ence. Attending it, was my last social outing. 
I looked forward to. exchanging pleasant adieux 
with the many friends whom Lhad missed in the 
later whirl.” 

“I happened to wear this very dress, and as 
it was a ‘grand fete, ’ I ventured to wear my 
jewels— these pearls,” the heroine said, “and all 
my diamonds. They were as safe with me as 
at the Hotel and I had my bit of vanity.” The 
story teller smiled as she continued. “I might 
have spared the display for the priceless spoils 
of the East worn that night by the Russian 
dames of ‘la haute vol&e’ recalled to me the 
wisdom of the American arch-millionairess who 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


m 

appeared without a jewel, at the Moscow coro- 
nation of the young Czar, in a white dress by 
Worth, after seeing the family jewels of the 
muscovite noble ladies at the preliminary f tes. 
Still, my jewels had a great value. They nearly 
cost me my life and gave me the keenest agony 
of suspense I ever suffered. I was now as 
foolhardy, as independent as the Americans 
whom the Captain chides. I was to meet Alixe 
and the Baron at eleven precisely in the grand 
anteroom. No two ladies could in full dress 
occupy the same carriage. My driver Dimitri 
was perfectly reliable. 

“Buoyant with happiness, and arrayed in my 
bravest finery, I arrived at the splendid hall 
where the flower of Russia’s Household Guard 
was welcoming the circle of loveliness. The 
night was of the very coldest. As I descended 
from my carriage, awaited by a colossal young 
Apollo in a resplendent uniform, I noticed the 
driver Dimitri’s beard frozen into a solid mass of 
ice. My heart smote me! 

“Could I enjoy myself with this faithful fellow 
suffering in the bitter night air for hours ! Hastily 
with the mere impulse of a sudden pity, I said, 


210 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


1 Home! Dimitri! You need not wait. I shall 
not need you!’ I had noticed dozens of the 
fisvostchiks’ or low wheeled one horse phaeton- 
like vehicles around the entrance, and several of 
them were in line containing gentlemen attending 
the grand ball alone. ‘It is only a dozen blocks, ’ 
I thought! ‘I can easily take a waiting carriage 
to return.’ 

“For three long hours I enjoyed the indescrib- 
ably magnificent ‘mise en scene’ and at last saw 
the real Mazurka danced as only it can be danced 
under the northern lights. Alixe and her courtly 
husband quitted the ball an hour before the 
mazurka and I was bidden to a farewell break- 
fast by them in honor of my departure for the 
more familiar haunts of Paris and London. 
When the mazurka broke up, I waited not for 
the superb feast being served £ la Russe, but 
after being bundled up by deft handed maids in 
the anteroom, I looked like a Laplander of un- 
certain sex in the entanglement of ‘shuba, ’ furs, 
doubled veils and muffler. As the double glass 
doors swung behind me, a gust of icy wind 
swung the great doors of the court now almost 
empty. It must have disarranged my wraps and 


THE PASSING SHOW 


211 


exhibited the rich jewels and diamonds on my 
neck, arms and corsage. Clutching my furs 
closely, I stepped out into the withering blast. 
Several ‘isvostchik’ drivers darted forward, the 
first eagerly demanding my attention. Tired 
and weary, without a glance, I sharply cried 
‘Hotel de 1’ Europe, ’ as I settled myself in the 
little low carriage, with its slight hood, the only 
protection from the merciless night wind. It 
was so small that my knees almost touched the 
driver’s back, on his single seat in front. Shock 
headed, with a sheepskin cap, and a beard white 
with the congealed breath, freezing instantly, he 
was the t}'pe of the Petersburg street drivers. 
As I closed my weary eyes in fatigue, I remem- 
ber bitterly regretting my folly in sending home 
my comfortable closed coup&. ‘He might just 
as well have come back for me,’ I thought. 
‘Dimitri sleeps half the day! But I’ll be at 
home in five minutes.’ 

“My tired head fell and I dozed. I know not 
how long. I was awakened by a swifter motion 
of the carriage now dashing along. My aston- 
ished glances fell on dark and mean buildings. 
The driver was lashing his horse along. A hor- 


212 


THE PASSING SHOW 


rible fear possessed me! I recognized no great 
granite palaces, no broad avenues, no electric 
lights at the crossings, with the four silent 
cossacks, seated lance in hand, carbine and re- 
volver slung on, like bronze statues. It was a 
distant and squalid quarter of the town. I had 
been driving some time ! I felt it ! Disengaging 
one arm, I prodded the driver in the back and 
called ‘Hotel de 1’ Europe;’ he only grunted and 
and drove faster. I was now alarmed, for I recog- 
nized the features of the small shops, and houses 
of the working classes, a quarter I had crossed 
but once in going to the great porcelain and silk 
factories up the river! 

“The horrible truth flashed over me! I was 
being abducted by this villainous brute! I used 
every means in my power to stop him. He only 
looked around and grinned. At the pace we 
were traveling, I would have killed myself to 
have tried to jump out! Then, too, the streets 
were dark! My heart froze with fear! I quickly 
saw he was deliberately driving in dirty alleys 
and inside streets. I was now frantic. I quickly 
resolved to scream if I met any carriage or saw 
an open shop. By the fresher breeze, I knew 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


213 


we were approaching the river! The brute had 
thrown off all disguise and only urged his horse 
on. In this loneliness, a blow of his whip butt, 
or his brawny hands, at my throat, would silence 
me. 

“The ‘Hotel de 1’ Europe’ was below the hall 
of the great Ball, toward the lower Nevsky. 
Here I was near the upper bank of the river in 
the dangerous quarter. Like an electric shock, old 
stories of people murdered and thrown in ice 
crevasses of the river, after robbery, came to my 
mind. The Neva gives up several scores of 
cadavers yearly in the ice break of May. While 
I was torn in agony we turned into a wider road. 
I saw a light and forms at a window peered at 
us. I screamed with my whole power! I heard a 
scornful laugh as we flashed into darkness. 
‘Some one vodki crazed’ they thought! The 
big brute before me laughed ! I can hear his dev- 
ilish accents yet;. A desperate thought came to 
me. I had this fan and its very heavy double silk 
cord around my waist securing it. I slipped the 
girdle off, and drawing the strong cord into a 
loop, determined to cast it over the devil’s neck 
and try and strangle him. Terrified, half frozen 


214 


THE PASSING SHOW 


and exhausted, I prayed to God for help, for 
strength. ‘It can’t last long — this horror’— I 
thought. And it did not, for now he dashed out 
on the river bank by the upper bridge. By the 
bridge head, an inclined plane of ice led down 
to the frozen river plateau. ' I recognized it. I 
had driven over to the ice mountains on the 
island here. The fiend’s design was clear! Once 
out on that ice, he would not delay in violence! 
The fatal jewels had been seen by him through 
the glass doors, as I stood in the anteroom lobby. 

“As we swung out of the side street, we almost 
ran into a double sleigh drawn by two horses. In 
the glimmering star light, I could dimly see two 
men behind the driver! Wer they returning 
from a night on the island — a gypsy singer frol- 
ic, or a gay supper! I threw all my force into my 
voice and screamed, ‘Help! Murder!’ in English, 
French, and German! 

“Before the demon before me could dash aside, 
an active man sprang out of the sleigh followed 
by his eager companion. The last grasped the 
horse’s head, while the first rescuer called sharp- 
ly to me, in good round German, ‘Who are you. 
What’s the matter?’ 


THE PASSING SHOW 


215 


“I was half dead with fright and fatigue and 
yet I managed to stammer a few words. 

“Seizing the heavy butted whip from the hands 
of the brute before me, with one blow of its 
handle, the athletic young German knocked the 
scoundrel from his seat. With boot and thong 
he belabored the howling coward till he yelled 
again. A few sharp words from his friend 
caused him to desist. 

“He sprang to my side, still holding the whip. 
‘ Please come in my sleigh, ’ said my deliverer. 
I could hardly walk the two or three steps. 
‘Fritz,’ he cried, ‘your flask.’ In a moment I 
had drained a generous draught of cognac. I 
was warmly muffled up, and I saw the other 
traveller spring in the ‘isvostchik’ and follow in 
our track. 

“‘What shall I do with this scoundrel! He 
should be punished! May I smoke,’ he said. 
I bowed. I had noticed his companion light 
several matches and take a look at the ‘isvost- 
chik’ and the now subdued villain. 

“I reflected on the merry gossip of the exclusive 
circles as to my informal visit to the Turkish 
Ambassador! 


216 


THE PASSING SHOW 


“Sick and weary as I was, I had yet presence 
of mind to think of the chattering tongues of 
scandal! 

“An American lady— keeping her own carriage, 
exposing herself at night in a common street 
‘droschky, ’ and she covered with jewels. A 
guest at an almost Imperial Ball in such a plight.’’ 

“‘You are right, Madame! I see,’ We were 
now speeding up to the Hotel de 1’ Europe. 
‘Permit me to hand you my card. I am the 
Counselor of the German Embassy here. ’ A 
joyous exclamation escaped me. The Ambassa- 
dor was a personal friend. 

“‘May I call to-morrow and assure myself of 
your complete tranquillity?’ the manly German 
asked. 

“‘It is the least I could do, and I will thank 
you and your friend ! ’ I said as both the cavaliers 
lifted their hats. Through the open door, I saw 
the crestfallen scoundrel driver cowering under 
the eye of the sleigh driver. In ten minutes, my 
frightened maid sat by me, as I fell into the deep 
sleep of exhaustion. When I awoke it was 
eleven o’clock, and with a violent effort, I 
essayed to robe myself for the parting dejeuner. 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


217 


Sturdy Bertha handed me the mirror. I was 
ghastly in pallor, and the arts of the toilet failed 
me for once. I had selected Bertha, as a maid 
of long experience in Russian life and travel. 

“I told the faithful girl of my wild night ride. 
Falling on her knees, the good border German 
crossed herself in thankfulness. ‘You shall not 
leave me again till we are out of this dreadful 
land. I know of several such missing people in a 
few years past. ’ 

“My business was all in order. The excuse of 
indisposition served to shorten my parting break- 
fast and adieux to the beloved Alixe and the 
gallant Baron. The minutes seemed to crawl 
until the hour for departure should arrive. 

“Alixe ceased her merry railing about my 
sorrow at leaving ‘Cousin Alexis’ and the dash- 
ing Major. 

“Woman-like, she read in my pale face and 
sunken eyes, the reaction of some sudden sorrow. 
Folding her loving arms around me, she prom- 
ised a meeting in other scenes. Filled with 
nervous unrest, the slightest noise shocked me 
and I was on the verge of a severe illness. 
Still my tired brain buoyed me up with the 


218 


THE PASSING SHOW 


thought. ‘To-night I will be on the way to 
home, friends and safety. ’ 

“At my Hotel, I found Dr. Carl Peterman, and 
his friend Herr Max Waldorf awaiting me. 
With grim satisfaction, they told me of the ex- 
cellently laid on lashing administered to the 
howling would-be assassin by two stout ‘mou- 
jiks, ’ who well earned a bottle of vodki and a five 
rouble note each. They had conveyed the wretch 
to their stables and had given him the Mosaic 
law of stripes with a German additional sentence. 

“Frank and loyal gentlemen, they kept my se- 
cret and I was spared publicity. Never can I for- 
get the first breath of free air as I crossed the Rus- 
sian frontier. It was some months before I recov- 
ered the command of my nerves and since then, 
I have adopted the conservative rule of always 
telegraphing for a responsible driver to await me, 
on changinghotels. I have also learned to never 
put myself in the power of strangers. So you see, 
Captain, you are right !” cried our hostess gaily, 
turning to Dalyrymple. 

“The beggar should have been roundly pun- 
ished!” growled the Guardsman. 

“Ah!” said Lenore Montgomery, as she passed 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


219 


the silk strands of the fan cord through her 
jeweled hands. “I sent Dr. Peterman and his 
friend, some little memorials of their manly kind- 
ness. A pleasant correspondence followed. 
After my entire recovery, I learned from them, 
that a similar outrage was a local sensation later. 
Max Waldorf deemed it his duty to confide my 
adventure to the Chief of Police. ‘Now! Herr 
Waldorf!’ said the General in charge of the city 
police. ‘All these scoundrels have cards and the 
vehicles are numbered. If I had either, they 
correspond, and I could catch this fiend. A 
week in the fortress would loosen his tongue,’ 
said the stern official, with a grim scowl which 
made Waldorf shudder. He knew the under- 
ground cell tortures in the gloomy Pentagon. 

‘“Will this aid you ?’ said Waldorf, handing the 
chief a card. ‘I lit a cigar and read off the 
number at once on the vehicle. The beast did 
not see me!’ 

“‘Waldorf! you are a born detective !’ shouted 
the general. ‘Give me the exact date!’ This 
done, the official bowed him out. ‘I shall send 
for you in four days!’ 

“True to his word, before that period elapsed, 


220 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


Waldorf saw a manacled villain cowering under 
the chief’s cold relentless eye. The evidence of 
the two gentlemen led to a break down and a 
confession by the malefactor. The last victim, 
a worthy young north German girl, (the com- 
panion of a wealthy Russian lady of rank) had 
been murdered for some valuables of her mis- 
tress. To the ineffable delight of Peterman and 
Waldorf, the last view of the wretch was, as 
chained to his accomplices, he was dragged 
aboard a train to serve a life sentence in the 
Siberian salt mines. 

“I can sometimes think I see again those 
gloomy streets, hear the merciless wintry winds, 
and gaze on the unpitying stars of that awful 
night. The nameless horrors of the mental agony 
and the revulsion of feeling even now unfit me to 
look back upon those Petersburg days with aught 
but fear and trembling. 

“No! I will never forget my night ride in St. 
Petersburg 1” said Lenore Montgomery, as she 
led the way to the drawing-room. 

“I was under the shadow of the Death Angel s 
wing.” 


WHAT BROKE MAJOR CON- 
RAD’S HEART. 


A LEGEND OF LONG ISLAND 

I T was with open-eyed astonishment that I 
vainly sought, the other day, for any traces of 
the old pre-revolutionary mansion house on 
Long Island, where I spent two happy weeks of 
my “graduating furlough,” twenty-five years ago. 
My grizzled beard and stiffened joints told me 
alas, only too plainly, of the lapse of time! I 
knew where my dear chum Killiaen Rysdyck 
rested in a far off stranger land! The last of his 
race! I was alone on the old ground! 

Yet, as I climbed the well remembered knoll, 
I saw nothing familiar, for the stately mansion, 
with its noble portico of fluted pillars, its narrow 
windows, quaint dormer roof and massive walls, 
221 


222 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


built of materials brought from England had 
vanished ! 

Still, there was the same gleaming blue 
stretch of sea, now ploughed by giant liners, and 
flecked with white winged yachts. The ancient 
trees around the once famous garden close of 
Rysdyck Hall were represented by a few veter- 
ans tottering, in the last stages of decay. Fair 
meadows and green rolling knolls lay smiling 
there before me — but the smart imitation “Queen 
Anne” residence was merely a crystallization of 
modern sham and artistic ugliness. The grand 
old house, built by Killiaen’s ancestors when 
hearty Tories drank their toasts to Church and 
State under George the Second, was a head- 
quarters of the “squirearchy” before Napoleon 
Bonaparte was born, and while Wellington lisped 
as a pratling child. New York city boasted then 
an open slave market, and there was but one 
newspaper in the baby metropolis when the 
ample foundations of the vanished mansion were 
laid. The sharp wind blowing from the sea 
threw mocking tributes of withered leaves around 
me from the little branches of the last relics of 
the old woods. “Nothing but leaves !” Ail was 
sadly changed! 


THE PASSING SHOW 


223 


I could hear only 

“the moaning of the sea of change” 

in the chords of the wind harp! 

Gone! — I was not deceived, and the merry 
riding parties of a “smart set,” dashing by on 
the new roads, or clustered in gay tennis battles, 
replaced the sturdy hard riding, three bottle- 
men of bygone days! and their bright eyed 
sweethearts of the old regime! 

“Surely,” said I, “the old stone church, with 
its God’s acre, has escaped that arch fiend of 
these degenerate days ‘Modern Improvement!’” 

I could not find for the straggling monuments, 
and mossy grave stones of the wild Rysdycks, 
once the haughty social tyrants of the old Hall, 
whose doors had swung before Sir William Howe 
and General George Washington, and opened to 
loyalist and rebel in the war of Independence as 
Victory hovered indecisively. 

Even the low gray stone wall, closing around 
a massive block bearing a foreign coat of arms 
— a sculptured pair of crossed sabres, and the 
almost illegible letters L. v. C. had vanished. 
As I wandered away to return to the great Babel 
of Manhattan, with its restless human tides, 


224 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


ebbing and flowing in frantic unrest, I could 
picture to myself old Peter Rysdyck, seated with 
pipe in hand, on the porch, as on the day when 
he told me of the man who rested almost for- 
gotten beneath the mockery of the stately coat 
of arms and the deeply graven crossed sabres. 

Gone! The old manor house, the hardy race 
of intermingled Tory and sturdy Dutch blood — 
even the graves of the haughty Rysdycks were 
effaced! Therefore, I marvelled not that the 
alien soldier’s ashes had been rudely disturbed. 

“Don’t know!” said an old farmer whom I 
questioned as I wandered away. “Old family 
all gone! Speculator bought the place up and 
divided it. Lots of new roads and improvement 
now, sir. All the old things are sold or scattered 
over the island! Railroad runs through the old 
burying ground now!” 

I bowed my head and departed in silence. 

I fancied that night in the quiet of my den,, 
in the peopled wastes of New York that I could 
see the manor house in its days of glory once 
more. The days of 1776 when Annette Rysdyck 
was the “Flower of Long Island,” and the toast 
of Howe’s gold laced officers brilliant in the 


THE PASSING SHOW 


225 


scarlet of King George III. came to me through 
dream and story. Merry wassail was held there 
in the old dining-hall, where aspiring loyalist 
beaux, joined with the courtly Hessian com- 
manders in pledging Annette Rysdycks bright 
eyes. A few miles away in the eventful July 
and early August of ’76, “Mr. George Washing- 
ton’' at New York, was planning to crush the 
gallant embattled host comfortable cantoned on 
Staten Island, supported by a strong English 
fleet and aided by the local enthusiastic loyalists. 
Old Hendrick Rysdyck and his haughty wife, 
secretly hated the victorious British as the 
quartering of troops bore heavily on them. 

At their board, the roystering British military 
dandies were joined by Count Donop, Colonels 
Braun, Rahl, Baumgarten and a throng of the 
highbred continental veteran militaires who 
marshalled the twenty-two thousand soldiers 
sold, in block, by the Elector of Hesse-Cassel 
for the splendid bribe of three million pounds in 
ringing British gold. 

In the days before the destruction of the 
manor, Peter Rysdyck, with pride, had shown 
me the curiosities of the venerable mansion. 


220 


THE PASSING SHOW 


They were familiar themes to my chum Killiaen. 
Its quaint mantels with rare Dutch scriptural 
tilings — its carved oaken beam — the walls, 
whereon still hung many faded pictures of the 
last of the old revolutionary incumbents, all 
spoke of the romance of the old. The oaken 
side-boards still were garnished with antique 
plate, and the great halls were still decked with 
ancient weapons, trophies of the French wars 
and quaint reminders of the earliest colonial 
days! Hanging in the drawing room were two 
portraits which fascinated me, and beneath them 
an old sabre, flanked by a pair of richly silver 
mounted flint lock pistols. Peter paused in 
answer to my query before the pictures. Almost 
the last of his race, he gazed with stern defiance 
upon he second , while my romantic mood 
chained me to the jii'st. 

The face beaming down on me was that of - a 
girl in the May of womanhood, her exquisite bust 
and shoulders were those of a new world Diana, 
the speaking liquid brown eyes seemed to fix 
themselves with intensity upon me, and follow 
my changing positions. The crimson lips parted 
in the shadow of a blossoming smile gleamed 


j 

THE PASSING SHOW 227 

Venus like in their soft seduction, the ivory pillar 
of her neck gave her a stately dignity beyond her 
years. Life, love and the very spring time of 
beauty lingered around this charming face. A 
rose pressed to her bosom in a delicate hand, 
displayed the loveliness of one beautiful arm. 

Yet, on the firm brows and in the poise of the 
strong face were sure indications of an imperious 
will — and all the pride of the haughty Rysdycks. 

Old Peter stood facing the other portrait and 
as I glanced at him, I could read the bitterness 
of a feud carried beyond the grave! There was 
certainly a story here! The woman’s face at 
which he gazed was evidently the same ! Painted 
in later years, it was the royal flower of which my 
pictured vis avis , was the brillant opening bud. 

“She was the curse of our race,” said old 
Peter, “and on our doorstep brought the fatal 
stain of innocent blood shed for her, and shed 
in vain !” 

“Ralph,” said the old man to me softly. 
“Killiaen is the very last Rysdyck! I feel, I know 
that our race will disappear from the earth, and 
our familiar places shall know us no more! 
Killaen’s a good boy — strange, dreamy and 


228 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


doomed to suffer for her. Come with me ! I will 
tell you that old story !” 

So down through the hedge walled old rose 
garden, where the heavy laden bees were hum- 
ming in the drowsy summer afternoon, the old 
man guided me, pointing with his crutch cane 
at distant points memorable in the unlucky battle 
of Long Island* It was while seated on the low 
stone around the alien soldier’s grave, as I 
watched the long grass waving over the resting 
place of the forgotten warrior, I listened to the 
tale of Ludwig von Conrad’s broken heart! 

“My grandfather Hendrick was the highest in 
rank and consideration of any of the Rysdycks. 
Lord of broad acres, proud in his descent from 
a famous family of the Low Countries, he was 
hot-blooded and dashing in his youth. Secretly 
jealous of the English gentry who were overrun- 
ning the west end of Long Island, he, superior in 
education and hospitable as an Arab, mixed 
freely with the gallants of the British Governor’s 
quasi-court at New York. Splendid steeds and 
deep mouthed hounds were adjuncts of Rysdyck 
Hall, and after ringing runs across country, start- 
ing the trooping deer, in chase of Master Rey- 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


229 


nard, Hendrick Rysdyck in his red coat, led the 
4 Hunters chorus/ or solemnly gave the ceremo- 
nial toast 4 His Majesty.’ 

“With a Dutchman’s keeness to his own interest, 
it was not love alone which caused him to bring 
handsome Eleanor Carteret home to Rysdyck 
Hall as its 4 chatelaine !’ A niece of the all 
powerful British Governor, she brought him a 
rich dowry, in spade guineas and yellow 
Spanish doubloons. Moreover, extensive privi- 
leges of trade to the Spanish main, and local 
benefits of place and power, made Hendrick 
Rysdyck the leading squire of the neighborhood. 
Around his board, the Governor and his Council 
often gazed at high spirited Dame Eleanor 
queening it over the landed gentry of those yet 
romantic days. It was from the stern ambitious 
Englishwoman, that her only daughter An- 
nette, (the lady of the two pictures) inherited her 
iron will, and indomitable pride as well as a 
conspicuous beauty. Calmly avoiding save as 
a ceremonial hostess, the old Dutch aristocracy, 
Eleanor Rysdyck recognized in her heart as 
equals only the powerful Seatons, the nearest 
manor people of her own nation. 


230 


THE PASSING SHOW 


Her husband clearly the most acceptable of her 
suitors, was blindly guided by her. On her only 
son Philip she lavished no endearments. Manly, 
free hearted and the pride of his father’s heart, 
Philip Rysdyck was the local leader of his class 
and generation! A splendid sportsman, a daring 
rider and his father’s pride, the young Squire at 
twenty-two knew every inch of Long Island, 
and had explored in his boating cruises every 
shoal and inlet of the coast ! At this period the 
echoing guns of Lexington and Bunker Hill 
called the outraged colonists to arms.” 

“You may judge what Annette Rysdyck was 
from her picture,” said the old man. “My father 
in his old age told me it did not fully mirror her 
splendid beauty.” 

“Annette was in the spring flush of her charms, 
barely eighteen, when the splendid army of 
Howe gathered on Staten Island. The family 
councils were gloomy and constrained. Hendrick 
Rysdyck sought to save his wealth and preserve 
his many valuable privileges by fox like cunning. 
Queenly Dame Eleanor gladly threw open the 
doors of the Hall to the higher officers of Lord 
Howe after the victory and the courtly Corn- 


THE PASSING SHOW 


231 


wallis was her own admirer. Annette was soon 
the reigning toast of the Commander’s brilliant 
staff. The proud young beauty was carried 
away with the unwonted adulation of the 
showy military circle. But one member of the 
family had been gloomy and undecided as the 
August days brought war to their doors. Phil- 
ip Rysdyck was his father’s double in reti- 
cence. In secret, he resented the extinction of 
the old Dutch supremacy and ill brooked the 
scorn of the haughty English officers for the 
1 country beau,’ as they termed him. A man 
with not spirit enough to wear the king’s cloth 
in war! Philip, cold and mechanically dutiful 
to his mother, was his father’s confidant and 
idolized his lovely sister. As far as her some- 
what selfish nature would permit, Annette 
Rysdyck returned her brother’s love. In wood- 
land rides, in the companionship of his boat 
excursions and all the pleasures of the free and 
unchecked country amusements, Philip and An- 
nette were more than brother and sister in 
friendship. They were daily companions. 

“But one cloud hovered between them, it was 
the brother’s indecision in the conflict daily 


232 


THE PASSING SHOW 


drawing nearer! Philip despised the thrifty 
Puritanical colonists of the eastern end, working 
gradually in from the New England colonies, but 
he did not at heart crave to serve King George. 
His personal feelings were with the gallant 
country gentlemen of Maryland and Virginia. 
Deaf even to the entreaties of his nearest friend, 
Fenwick Seaton, Philip resisted the joint argu- 
ments of his spirited sister and the only heir of 
the powerful Seatons. 

“‘Come with us! You shall have a cornetcy at 
once/ urged Seaton, already a volunteer aid it 
General Howe’s staff. The young aristocrat’s 
pride forbade a subordinate rank and the struggle 
in his bosom between family influence and an 
enthusiastic admiration of the stately colonial 
hero George Washington, was a bitter one. 
Philip cared little for the stern browed puritans 
of bluff old Israel Putnam, Sullivan, and Lord 
Sterling. He admired the high spirited Maryland 
line and the keen eyed Virginians. 

“Hendrick Rysdyck cautiously veiled his 
loyalty to George III. as Washington and Lee 
concentrated their troops around New York and 
on Brooklyn heights. Keeping solitary state in 


r 


THE PASbiHG SHOW 233 

the grand Hall, he was deserted with his ambi- 
tious wife. When the British were forced to 
evacuate Boston, and Sir Peter Parker and Gen- 
eral Clinton were roughly repulsed at Charleston 
harbor, sly old Hendrick waited his time to see 
the reunited forces of Howe, Cornwallis and 
Clinton drive into the ocean or scatter beyond the 
East River the swarming rebels whos£ foraging 
parties and patrols made havoc of his fields, and 
pillaged his granaries, liberally helping them- 
selves to his live stock. Though grudgingly paid, 
he accepted the presence of the armed colonists 
as a necessary evil. In secret, he kept up a 
correspondence with the loyalists of New York, 
plotting and planning while Philip, his son and 
heir, roamed through the American camp, or 
passed the days of suspense in hunting and 
plowing sea and sound on the fishing boats of 
the tenants under his father’s thrall. Lovely 
Annette, in her necessary home seclusion in these 
times, gave little heed to the occasional admiring 
glances of Washington’s passing officers. 

“The shadows lifted from tory Hendrick Rys- 
dyck’s eyes when the stately ships Phoenix, 
Rose, Greyhound, Thunder, Carcass and Roe- 


234 


THE PASSING SHOW 


buck, covered with their heavy guns the grand 
encampment of Howe and Cornwallis’ veterans 
from Halifax, and the crowded transports of 
the splendidly disciplined Hessians, as well as the 
baffled veterans of Parker and Clinton, in their 
guarded camps on Staten Island. The old 
schemer was too sly to expose himself in person, 
but in anxious nights he plotted to give the Brit- 
ish commanders every detail of the American 
camp. 

“Whom could he trust? No one but the heir 
of this great domain, his only son. His tenants 
scattered around the inland camps of the Amer- 
icans furtively stole into the Hall, as the early 
days of July brought the clash of arms nearer. 
Supported by their reserves on the New York 
shore, the rebels feared not the British ships, too 
heavy to enter the dangerous East River. 
Ignorant of Philip’s wavering loyalty, Hendrick, 
as July wore on, sent him on secret excursions 
by sail-boat from the inlets of the south shore to 
the British fleet. Familiar with every foot-path, 
Philip conveyed at night, by glen and through 
the familiar woods, several mysterious visitors 
who were hurried back to the shore under cover 


THE PASSING SHOIV 235 

of night Fond of romantic exploits, and 
reasonably subservient, light-hearted Philip Rys- 
dyck never realized that the laws of war might 
entangle him. An absolute silence, was imposed 
on the heir of Rysdyck! In early August, these 
excursions became more dangerous. The spirit 
of ’76 had thrilled many hearts! In his inner 
soul, Philip hesitated between his father’s anger, 
the loss of his inheritance, and the growing feel- 
ings of a patriot heart. 

“The hum of preparation resounded on all 
sides. New York was in a ferment! And soon 
the rebel patrols scoured the shores of Long 
Island, and swift videttes carried to the camp of 
the colonists every movement reported. 

“Sharing his father’s risks, in personal peril, 
the young Squire’s blood rose in anger at the 
thought of the garden island soon to be laid 
under the scourge of torch and sword! 

“The free ocean breezes, the untrammeled 
waves, the night winds of the forest, sang for 
him only the wild song of Liberty! 

“In the old library on August 18, of this im- 
mortal year, the handsome colonist waited to 
depart on a mission of peril. 


236 


THE PASSING SHOW 


“‘You may be gone a day or two, my son!’ 
said the Squire gravely. ‘I confide to you this 
letter. You will be conducted to the presence of 
His Majesty’s Generals. Remember that the 
safety of your family hangs upon your prudence! 
An officer will meet you with a boat at your old 
fishing cottage, and you will be safely returned 
there. I will have a trusty man waiting there 
with horses concealed in the woods for you. He 
will go out with you as soon as darkness comes!’ 

“Troubled at heart Philip secured the letter, 
and in his room, prepared for the journey. His 
trusty pistol belt, a double purse of guineas and 
a heavy horseman’s cloak, with some private 
articles in his saddle pouches completed his 
preparations. ‘No one can tell what may hap- 
pen in these days,’ thought the young Squire. 
Warned by his father, Philip was taciturn at din- 
ner, for neither his stately mother nor the sweet 
sister gazing across the old mahogany at him, 
knew of his adventurous trip. When the twink- 
ling stars began to rise in the eastern skies, with a 
last word of admonition from his father, Philip 
strode through the old hall. *He turned aside to 
embrace his sister, who was seated at her spinet. 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


237 


Ul Annette! I am going away for a few days,’ 
he fondly said. ‘If anything happens, I shall 
confide in you alone! No! Dear! Don’t ask 
me questions. Keep mother quiet. If I want 
to see you alone, watch your own windows at 
night. Remember our old signal !’ The fright- 
ened girl laughed, for Philip in boyish frolic, when 
overstaying the closing of the old baronial hall, 
would cast handfuls of gravel at her diamonded 
windows and gain his rooms without alarming 
the querulous Squire or the butler with his bell 
mouthed blunderbuss. Lightly loosening her 
rounded arms, with a last kiss, Philip Rysdyck 
rode away from the Hall on his first great quest! 

“‘For the King!’ his father whispered as he 
pressed Philip’s hand. ‘I’ll see you in the Gov- 
ernor’s council yet!’ 

“The young Squire dashed away, his splendid 
steed striking fire from the flinty stones. Behind 
him steadily rode the mute agent of his father’s 
will. 

“By path and short cut, the youth pushed 
hard in the teeth of the cool sea breeze, toward 
the shore where the long urges tumbled lazib’ 
on the lonely beach. After an hour an'* 


238 


THE PASSING SHOW 


smart riding, from a ridge he had crowned, the 
dispatch bearer saw the flickering light in a 
fisher’s hut. In ten minutes Philip Rysdyck 
drew rein at the squalid shelter. Here, his 
companion took the reins of his horse. 

“Two hardy fishermen stepped out, and as- 
sisted to handle the steeds. ‘We are ready! 
The dory is in the inlet. Your boat lies outside! 
They wait for yon!’ Six cable’s length from the 
shore a stout shallop lay anchored beyond the 
outer surf. ‘I will have the horses ready in the 
woods a few rods off and will wait for you. On 
your return I will be at the hut,’ said the guide, 
who was a stranger to Philip. 

“‘Where do you go now?' curtly questioned 
the youth. 

“‘I will send report of your safe departure — 
when I see it,’ curtly answered the stranger. 

“Philip sprang in the dory and breasting the 
long rollers, the light boat drew alongside the 
shallop. 

“One of the fishermen sprang on board. Rys- 
dyck knew them as Tory secret agents in his 
former visits to the fleet. 

“‘Now! Squire!’ he cried, as he leaped back, 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


239 


and Philip Rysdyck seated himself in the stern 
sheets of the boat, whose grapnel was being lifted, 
and the sail was rapidly hoisted. 

“The freshening night breeze filled the canvas 
and the foam flew as the stout boat dashed along 
toward the open Narrows. Beside him, a cloaked 
figure gave sharp commands, in good English 
tinged with the accent of the Vaterland. Driving 
spray and the chill night winds kept the young 
Squire silent. Two hours later, past the swing- 
ing lights of the anchored fleet, the shores cf 
Long Island lost to view, the shallop glided into 
an inlet, under the scarped banks of Staten 
Island. 

“Following his silent companion, Philip 
stepped on shore. ‘Is that you, Roemer?’ he 
cried, as a man led forward two horses. ‘Ja! 
Herr Major,’ was the response in German 
gutterals. Turning to him, the officer addressed 
Philip. T am Major Ludwig von Conrad of the 
Commander’s staff. We have only a short ride. ’ 

“In half an hour, Philip Rysdyck dismounted 
at the Major’s marquee. By the lights in the 
comfortable hut, Rysdyck saw a stalwart, hand- 
some blue eyed man of twenty-six, with crisp 


240 


THE PASSING SHOW 


curly locks of fair hair. Winning and manly in 
address, Major Conrad looked every inch a sol- 
dier, in his dress-coat, golden epaulettes and high 
horseman’s boots. Sword and pistols and the 
queer domed cap, with the Elector of Hesse 
Cassel’s arms, set off the dashing young field 
officer. 

‘“Squire Rysdyck, he said pleasantly, ‘Ser- 
geant Boemer will give you refreshments while 
I report to the Commander in Chief. ’ The 
Hessian Major sprang on his horse and galloped 
away. Refreshed and rested, Philip Rysdyck 
awaited the return of his conductor. The stout 
German sergeant never left the tent a moment. 
‘Am I watched like a prisoner, ’ thought Rysdyck 
with indignation. Clattering back in haste, 
Major Conrad, without dismounting called: 
‘Roemer! The horses! Now, Squire,’ he sig- 
nalled to Philip. Through the silent camp, its 
sleeping regiments awaiting the issue of battle 
in soldierly unconcern, Rysdyck rode. ‘You 
speak English well, Major!’ he remarked. ‘I 
was on the Elector’s staff and visited England in 
these negotiations as bearer of confidential de- 
spatches. I have always known the tongue. 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


24 i 


But, here we are!’ They dismounted at a man- 
sion house, and through a throng of waiting 
officers, entered a hall where His Majesty’s 
Generals sat around a table littered with maps 
and papers. 

‘“Your letter, sir!’ cried a commanding man 
on whose breast glittered a star. Philip bowed 
and presented his precious trust. ‘ Looks a likely 
fellow,’ coolly observed red-faced Lord Corn- 
wallis to Count Donop, a grizzled Hessian. 

“For an hour, Philip Rysdyck was questioned, 
and over maps and plans forced to answer every 
rapid query of the three generals whose heads 
bowed anxiously over the mass of plans and 
itineraries. 

“‘That will do,’ finally said Howe with an air 
of satisfaction. ‘Conrad, ’ measuredly said the 
Commander, ‘Take care of this young gentleman. 
Keep him with you until the landing! I hold 
you responsible for him. His knowledge of the 
ground will be invaluable. His father writes me 
he knows every inch by day and night. ’ 

“Philip Rysdyck’s prudence alone cut off an 
indignant protest. His plan of action was in- 
stantly formed. Retiring in silence, he regained 
the hospitable Hessian’s abode. 


242 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


“Exhausted with fatigue he slept, aroused only 
by the occasional call of the sentinels changing 
guard. 

“Dawn brought the wild singing bugles and 
rolling drums of reveille. The young Squire found 
as the day progressed, that, though hospitably 
entertained, he was almost a guarded prisoner. 

“Signs of mustering, packing, breaking camp 
and a feverish activity pervaded the host. Boats 
plied between the shore and the distant frigates 
and the scores of transports were peopled with 
active sailors. Courteous, full of bonhomie and 
winning, Major von Conrad yet refrained con- 
versation on the subject of the landing. He 
frankly said: ‘It is the wish of General Howe 
that you remain here under my charge. ’ Moody, 
with rising bitterness in his heart, Philip Rys- 
dyck bided his time. On the second night, 
after the darkness of night had hidden the Long 
Island shores, the resentful young Squire was 
aroused from his light slumbers. 

“Springing up, he saw Major Conrad in full 
equipment standing by his cot. ‘We embark 
at midnight, Squire!’ said Conrad. ‘It is nearly 
eleven! I will return you to your landing!* 


THE PASSING SHOW 


243 


With eager hands, Philip packed his light saddle 
bags, springing silently on the horse waiting, he 
rode at the Hessian’s side to the strand. A stiff 
breeze was blowing fair for the homeward 
voyage. By the shore, long massed ranks of 
silent soldiery stood like embattled ghosts. A 
horrid dream of night ! Major Conrad led the 
way to a large sloop crowded with a hundred of 
the stolid Hessian grenadiers. The sails filled 
and bearing ruin and war, the advance boat ran 
through a fleet of batteaux and men-of-wars’ 
boats crowded to the gunwale. The Hessian 
soldiers herded like sheep, guarded an ominous 
silence. As the sloop sped swiftly along, Philip 
realized that the advance guard had been held 
back, till the heavier boats were well out in the 
channel. As the twinkling light of the fisher 
hut appeared, the young American felt his heart 
burn within him. Grim relentless war was to 
ravage his native shore and wet the soil with 
brothers’* blood! And alien hired hands were to 
be steeped in innocent blood! Recalling Major 
Conrad’s courtesy and friendly hospitality, he 
marvelled to see the stern young Major, with 
gleaming eyes, rapt in the excitement of the 


244 


THE PASSING SHOW 


landing with the picked rifles under his commad. 
The heavy sloop towed several large boats. At 
the surf line, Philip recognized the fishermen’s 
dory from which a lantern was waved three times. 
‘CSme with me!’ sternly said Major Conrad, as 
he stepped into the dory. Already the heavy 
Hessians, loaded down with huge clumsy swords 
and bungling equipment, as well as ponderous 
guns, were clambering into the boats astern. 
Every drop of blood in Philip’s frame was bound- 
ing. As he lightly sprang on shore, the waiting 
messenger of his father greeted him. ‘The horses 
are within two hundred yards.’ ‘Bring me your 
horse,’ cried Major Conrad to the guide as 
he stood, sword in hand, watching for the 
heavy troop laden boats. ‘You will ride with 
me, Squire!’ ‘I will get my horse!’ said Phil- 
ip. ‘Very well,’ Conrad answered. The first 
touch of his native soil made Philip Rysdyck 
a patriot! The scales had fallen from his eyes! 
Concealing a pistol in his left hand, a keen 
hunting knife in his right, he prayed for a 
chance of escape ! ‘Shall I kill him in the wood?’ 
he thought, looking at his silent guide. ‘No! 
I can not murder a defenceless man! Ah! I 


THE PASSING SHOW 


245 


have it!’ He clenched his teeth to still the 
beating of his heart. ‘Here we are. There’s 
your horse!’ ‘I’ll lead this one to the Major!’ 
‘Wait till I fix my girths and these saddle bags, 
said Philip carelessly. He lingered a few 
moments with the horse, knife in hand. A few 
dexterous passes in the dark, after his own steed 
was girthed and the bags placed, enabled him to 
cut the heavy saddle girths of the guide’s horse 
in three places all but a few threads. ‘Very well, ’ 
cried Philip as he settled himself in the sad- 
dle, and gazing at the stars, fixed the location 
of several forest paths. His spurs were buckled 
and his noble blood racer tossed his head impa- 
tiently. 

“While the guide gained a few yards, leading 
the other horse toward the beach, Philip Rys- 
dyck quickly wheeled his racer and dashed into 
the forest. A yell of rage told him that the baffled 
guide had vainly tried to mount the other horse 
with its disabled saddle. Before Major Ludwig 
von Conrad had ceased cursing the betrayed 
guide, Philip was a mile away and dashing 
toward General Putnam’s camp. Three hours 
later wearied and exhausted, Philip Rysdyck 


246 


THE PASSING SHOW 


rode into the patriot picket lines, and though 
the shore swarmed with thousands of British 
and Hessian troops, the surprise was averted. 
In the early gray of dawn, Hendrick Rysdyck 
was awakened by the baffled guide. His son’s 
flight confirmed the story and the message of 
Major von Conrad. The firing told the rest of 
the story! 

“‘I am ruined in my military honor — your son 
is a rebel, and he will be hung forthwith 
when caught,’ were Conrad's words. — Al- 
ready the dropping shots told of the approach 
of the hosts of George III, and ere Hendrick 
Rysdyck ceased raving to his haughty wife and 
the frightened heiress, the ground shook for 
miles under the discharge of a hundred can- 
non. Over the fair domain of Rysdyck Manor, 
mad reeling combatants struggled in fury. 
When the awful day gave way to a night lit' with 
watch fires, and blazing farms, surrounded by 
the groans of the wounded, Hendrick Rysdyck 
was a prisoner in his own home, and two com- 
panies of savage Hessians were in bivouac on 
his lawns. The manor outbuildings were filled 
with the wounded. Major Ludwig von Conrad 


THE PASSING SHOJV 


247 


in disgrace, deprived of his selected command was 
in charge. General Sullivan and Lord Sterling 
were captives, with a thousand more of the patri- 
ots, and five hundred rebel dead lay staring scat- 
tered over the once smiling meadows. Though 
Putnam, daring and despairing, awaited Washing- 
ton to lead off the broken army, the dear bought 
British victory cost five hundred men to King 
George. Ludwig von Conrad, his left armband- 
aged, stung by his disgrace, answered Annette 
Rysdyck bitterly as the excited girl begged tidings 
of him. *Our surprise would have been complete 
but for your brother, and he has cost me the 
lives of one hundred of my brave battalion!’ 

“The next day closed cold and foggy and at 
night every patriot soldier vanished, gaining 
New York, in friendly darkness, with their Gen- 
erals lashed by Washington’s anger. Sullen and 
smarting under his dismissal from the Com- 
mander’s staff, Ludwig von Conrad ruled at 
Rysdyck Hall with a rod of iron. Haughty old 
Hendrick Rysdyck stalked silently around as 
days passed on. ‘ I have no son ! ’ he cried gruffly 
in answer to Major Conrad’s query. The pris- 
oners were searched and no sight of Philip’s 
face or news of his fate resulted. 


248 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


“Major Conrad sent mounted men to scour the 
island. All in vain The days crawled away 
and two weeks later, the beautiful girl now 
frantic for tidings of her brother, saw the great 
host of Howe and Cornwallis pour over to de- 
fenseless New York, under cover of the formid- 
able fleet. At the silent table, where Major 
Conrad was an enforced guest, the stern old 
Squire and his wife sat in mute sullenness. 
Philip Rysdyck had dropped from their ken, as 
if forever. The handsome Hessian, young, 
spirited and romantic, as the days rolled on fell 
into the gilded snare of Annette Rysdyck’s 
beauty. Daily association drew them together, 
and before the victorious legions of Howe moved 
up with confidence against Washington’s demor- 
alized army at White Plains, the Hessian 
Commandant was her bondslave. Smarting yet 
under the sting of being left to guard a depot, 
care for the convalescents, and watch the terri- 
tory near Rysdyck Hall — left without a chance 
to share the coming victories, Ludwig von Con- 
rad, like a sleuth hound, followed every clue to 
effect the capture or trace the mystery of Philip 
Rysdyck. 


THE PASSING SHOW 


249 


“Before the middle of September, the Hall 
was in its olden quiet. The old Squire went his 
ways and never mentioned the absent heir. 
Heir no more, for Philip Rysdyck’s face was 
turned to the wall in the drawing-room! 

“‘He must have been killed! Perhaps he has 
escaped, ’ Major Conrad reasoned, in wolfish 
discontent. ‘How his sister loves him. She, 
alone, mourns him ! ’ It was even so, the girl daily 
plied every one with questions. T will watch 
her — if he ever tries to communicate, she will 
be the chosen one. ’ 

“As October approached, Major Conrad was 
aware of a change in Annette Rsydyck’s man- 
ner. She was cheerful, and at times her voice 
was raised in song. With careful punctilio he 
avoided intrusion. Yet the similarity of taste 
and feeling made the winning heiress brighten 
daily in his eyes. She was allowed to come and 
go at will. 

“Ludwig von Conrad woke smartly from his 
day dreams when Sergeant Boemer told him one 
day, ‘Herr Major! I am a little curious about 
the young lady. Two or three times a week, 
she rides alone in the morning and when she 


250 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


returns, her horse is always covered with foam! 
I wonder if she gets news of the young Herr!’ 
The Major questioned his sergeant. After the 
recital, he laid aside his assumed carelessness. 
‘Keep my best horse ready, and have yours also. 
Watch the young lady. If her horse is brought 
round, let me know! Warn me at once!’ The 
sergeant saluted and departed. Major Conrad 
noted the returning roses on Annette’s cheeks. 
Two days later, sword and pistols by his side, 
Ludwig von Conrad furtively followed the morn- 
ing ride of the Rose of Long Island. Keeping 
under the shade of the trees, followed directly 
by his orderly, with all the craft learned in the 
woods of his far off castle of Conradstein in the 
romantic Inselberg hills of Hesse, he traced the 
heiress of Rysdyck to a farm house nestled in a 
little glen, nine miles from Rysdyck. Cautiously 
keeping under cover, followed by the sergeant, 
armed with carbine, sabre and his pistols, the 
dashing soldier sprang in at the door of the little 
cottage. Annette’s horse was tied in a clump 
cf trees near by. With a scream, the lovely girl 
threw herself on her knees before a wasted form 
lying on a rude couch! It was handsome Philip 


THE PASSING SHOW 


251 


Rysdyck, gaunt and worn, his eyes still burning 
with fever. The chivalric Hessian sheathed his 
sword. Satisfying himself there was no one in 
hiding, save an old woman who hobbled away 
at the sight of an armed enemy — the Major 
swiftly left the room! Signalling Boemer, he 
ordered him to stand guard over all three horses. 
Returning, he sat down in silence and gazed at 
the sufferer. Philip’s eyes blazed defiantly. 
Conrad broke the silence. ‘You know my duty! 
I must do it!’ Philip essayed to speak. His 
head fell back in exhaustion. The fair girl, in 
impassioned pleadings, begged for her brother’s 
life. A shot wound in his shoulder, a bayonet 
thrust in his ribs had brought him to the verge 
of the grave! Major Conrad paced the room in 
manly agony. ‘It is more than life you ask me, 
it is my honor as a soldier! I am ruined now 
in standing. Discovery of this would forefeit my 
life! It is treason to the King!’ 

“‘Take my life and spare his,’ cried Annette 
Rysdyck on her knees. ‘Enough of this,’ cried 
Major Conrad, in desperation. ‘He must be 
moved from here! He will die as it is! He 
needs care, and his safety ! If seen by a stranger, 


252 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


his life is lost. You can confer with him. I 
will return in ten minutes.’ Devise a plan to 
get him to the Westchester shore. ‘I do not 
wish to know the details. I will see that you 
are aided.’ 

“An hour later, Major Conrad and Annette 
Rysdyck were riding towards the Hall, partners 
of a secret, in which a life was in gage for a life. 
A week later, borne in a heavy carriage escorted 
by the faithful Boemer and a half dozen troopers, 
Annette Rysdyck, accompanied by her maid, 
crossed to the Westchester shore in a sloop. 
The muffled maid was none other than Philip 
Rysdyck. Two faithful old hunting companions 
of the tenantry selected by Philip, now strength- 
ened by cordials and nursing were charged with 
his transport to the Americans lines at Tarry- 
town. ‘Iask but one reward, Annette,’ said 
Major Conrad, as they communed over the 
secret in the library of the old Hall. 1 For my 
sake, make Philip promise that he will seek the 
southern army of the rebels, if he joins them, 
for he will be tried by drumhead court and exe- 
cuted forthwith if ever caught by this command. ’ 
After the victorious cannon of White Plains had 


THE PASSTNG SHOIV 


353 


) 

thundered out a British victory and Fort Lee and 
Fort Washington were in the hands of the King’s 
troops, Annette Rysdyck, in secret, gave her 
hand to the gallant nobleman who had given her 
a brother’s life. A visit to New York, gave 
the heiress liberty and Major Conrad, obtaining a 
leave, grudgingly given, was married to the wom- 
an who held the secret of his generous disloyalty. 
Brief, sweet hours of. stolen happiness were the 
married lover’s only solace in the winter days of 
war. Hendrick Rysdyck, gloomy and harassed 
by the presence of the military, grew thinner 
daily. The loss of his son preyed on his mind. 
Philip was alone the confidant of the marriage 
and his safety in the Carolinas was the only 
bright spot in the gloom of winter. Before the 
snows of sping melted, the battles of Trenton and 
Princeton cut up the Hessian contingent and 
Major Ludwig von Conrad received at last his 
marching orders. With a heavy heart, he pre- 
pared to leave his unacknowledged wife, now 
the supposed sole heiress of Rysdyck Manor for 
old Hendrick lay under the winter snows. With 
unruffled brow haughty Dame Eleanor queened it 
at Rysdyck and did not hide her joy at the de~ 


254 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


parture of her enforced guest, The only visitor 
of note at the Hall was Fenwick Seaton, inso- 
lent in victory and, installed as the chief adviser 
of Dame Eleanor. He was a Colonel of Loyalists 
and daily Annette’s beauty (under its ripening 
bloom) inspired him to more ardent wooing. 
For she was, the richest heiress on fair Long 
Island. In stolen confidences, Ludwig von Con- 
rad, (who had prepared his will and given his 
girl-wife every paper needed to ensure her suc- 
cession to his German estates) bade her delay 
and put off the pressing advances of Fenwick 
Seaton. 

“The hour of parting came and Ludwig von 
Conrad, heavy hearted, drew his sword and 
marched away to join the great British host 
pressing toward Philadelphia. In agony of soul, 
the brave soldier lingered behind his troops and 
with glances of thrilling tenderness bade adieu 
to the woman whose love was now his idolatry. 
The spring blossoms came again to the trees 
and the field of the battle fought near Brooklyn 
was carpeted with the green grass, spangled with 
flowers waving over friend and foe. While 
Major Conrad, with heroic valor, gained fresh 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


255 


laurels at Brandywine and Monmouth, Annette 
von Conrad — no longer Annette Rysdyck sat at 
home, under the cold unforgiving reproaches of 
her irate mother. For her little daughter was 
now smiling at the fair young mother, its soldier 
father fighting bravely for a king not his own. 
At rare intervals, letters reached Rysdyck Hall, 
a house whose glories had departed. The rage 
of Dame Eleanor at the discomfiture of Fenwick 
Seaton was merciless in its outpourings upon the 
young mother. As the summer passed on, the 
babe grew in health and beauty. Major Conrad, 
in the regained esteem of his Commander in 
Chief proposed to remove his wife and child to 
the splendid semi-vice regal military court at 
Phliadelphia. Alas! The dreary days of October 
brought the lonely wife the tidings of the death 
of Count Donop, and the slaughter of his gallant 
Hessian mercenaries at Red Bank. Among the 
missing was Lieut. Colonel Ludwig von Conrad, 
who led one of the columns of assault. Ex- 
posed to the cold scorn of her mother, Annette 
von Conrad’s whole soul was centred in her 
child. During the first winter of her widow- 
hood, her only solace was a smuggled letter 


250 


THE PASSING SHOW 


reaching her after long delays in crossing the 
lines telling her of Philip’s upward career in the 
patriot army. And as the months rolled away, 
the laughing prattling child Marguerite von Con' 
rad became the angel of the house. Yet no 
smile ever lit up Dame Eleanor’s face. No 
definite tidings of Colonel Conrad’s death ever 
reached the handsome young widow whose life 
glided by in the security of Rysdyck Hall. 
Wealth and comfort there was, but a gloom 
hung over the old manor. The sole gleam of 
brightness was the growing and beautiful child. 
In desperate struggle the war dragged along and 
the proud day when the British marched out of 
New York forever, found Annette von Conrad 
as brilliant a beauty at twenty-six as the girl of 
eighteen. It was the royal flower of a matchless 
beauty. Time with its softening influence had 
folded up her sorrows in the dim memories of 
the stormy past. Dame Eleanor now gloomy 
and silent regarded with open hatred the lovely 
child now the light of the Hall. Annette von Con- 
rad’s heart bounded as Colonel Philip Rysdyck, 
in his blue and buff returned to sit at his father’s 
seat and be the ruler of Rysdyck Hall. From the 


THE PASSING SHOJV 


257 


moment when he crossed the threshold of his 
forefathers, Eleanor Rysdyck never left her room. 
1 1 have no son in a rebel and a spy,’ the stern 
old Tory hissed in answer to her daughter’s 
pleadings. Back with the blessed days of peace 
came Fenwick Seaton; a man of marked and 
varied talents and honored even by the victo- 
rious colonists. With some feminine prevision 
that Philip might take to himself a wife, Annette 
von Conrad, with a sigh for the past gave her 
fair hand and handsome fortune to the man 
whose years of wooing had proved an honorable 
constancy. The destruction of Seaton Hall by 
fire caused the continued residence of the Seatons 
at Rysdyck, for in the disorganized times it was 
a matter of months, even years to rebuild the 
manor house. Within a year after the wedding, 
grim Dame Eleanor died without a word to 
her son, whose name even had been torn from 
her heart. As Annette Seaton watched her last 
hours, she rose half in her couch and cried, ‘I 
have left you your reward for your disobedience ! 
You will know — yes— you will know!’ 

“Six months later these ominous words were 
forgotten. Colonel Philip Rysdyck, happy in 


258 


THE PASSING SHOW 


his morning rides over the estate with pretty 
Marguerite Conrad by his side waited anxiously 
for letters from Germany. For he had, as a labor 
of love, made claim to the estates of Conrad- 
stein for his lovely niece, the pride of the vet- 
eran’s heart. Seated on the porch one lovely 
autumn day he received a message which caused 
him to call for his horse and servant in hot haste. 
A messenger from Conradstein awaited Colonel 
Philip Rysdyck- at the Washington Arms in 
Brooklyn., ’Throwing himself in the saddle, 
Colonel Rysdyck rode rapidly to the growing 
city. Ushered into, an upper suite of rooms, 
seated at the table, a gray haired man rose and 
trnued tohim with-out a word. 

“‘My God !’ screamed Philip. ‘Is it you! — 
Conrad! From the dead?’ 

“‘Ah! No!’ said the gray haired tenant of the 
room. ‘It is really Ludwig von Conrad!’ A 
huge scar traversed his bronzed cheek. ‘Tell 
me, Philip, of this devtl’s work! Who did it?’ 
and the old soldier threw himself in Philip’s 
arms. ‘My wife, my child!’ 

“A light broke in on Philip’s brain! The old 
warning of his relentless mother. ‘Tell me why 
you are here?’ he gasped. 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


259 


“‘I was wounded and left for dead on the field 
at Red Bank! Mingled with our severely 
wounded, I was removed to the military hospital. 
My clothing and insignia of rank were removed 
or scattered. The wound in my head made me 
flighty and I was shipped off with others invalided 
to the continent and returned to Hesse Cassel. 
In time I was recognized and proceeded to my 
home. I wrote and wrote to my wife at Rys- 
dyck, confident of a sure answer, as our people 
held New York. After long months, I received 
a reply from Dame Eleanor announcing the death 
of my wife in sudden illness. For years, I was 
the victim of an almost insane melancholy. I 
lived at Conradstein nursing my grief and shun- 
ning the wild orgies of Fredrick II’s vicious 
court. Philip!’ cried the worn veteran, ‘A curse 
hung over the whole command. We, loyal sub- 
jects, were sold like dogs to fight a brave kindred 
anglo-saxon people in their own homes! The 
three million guineas were swallowed up by 
sycophants and painted sirens. The bones of 
the slaughtered Hessians lie exposed to wolf and 
raven on Long Island, at Bennington, at Trenton 
and Princeton and defeat and humiliating surren- 


260 


THE PASSING SHOW 


der dogged us. Donop, Baun, Rahl and others 
sleep in alien graves! I felt while forming my 
troops in the dark, after your escape, that our 
descent on your shores was a cruel butchery. 
Look at my disfigured face, my lost manhood, 
my years of sorrow and now, this agony! Your 
letter came like a thunderbolt. My wife alive, 
her heart turned against me, another’s wife, and 
my child a stranger. All, all lost to me ! It is 
the curse of the innocent slain on Long Island! 
Who worked the crowning woe ? Who with- 
held my letters?’ *The once stately nobleman 
groaned in agony, his bosom heaving ! 

<u It was my relentless mother!’ replied Philip 
sadly, as he pressed Conrad’s hands. ‘A demon 
entered her soul. Pride and ambition with 
hatred of the colonists. She kept and destroyed 
all your letters! The postbag came to her! In 
resentment for her child’s love of me, the rebel 
spy, she left her a legacy of sorrow and shame ! 
And the doom of the intended surprise, followed 
my father and mother. Both dead, alienated 
from their children! I shall perhaps avoid the 
curse ! But it rests on Annette. Now, Ludwig, 
I owe you my life! What shall we do?’ 


THE PASSING SHOW 


2G1 


“In a long conference, Philip Rysdyck found 
his plan at last. 

“‘Your coming must be kept a secret! Your 
very existence ! I will consult advocates. I have a 
house opposite the park gates. A roomy den, 
built for my own use, and there I have my books 
and trophies. I meet there my associates of 
the patriot army. We are building up a com- 
munity. I shall leave the ill fated old Hall to 
Annette as long as she needs it. I will send a 
closed carriage for you to-night ! There you can 
remain in quiet! I have one or two tried men 
who followed me through the war! You shall 
see your child, your lovely girl! Be happy, 
Conrad, the second marriage is a childless one! 
Your daughter will have her birthright T 

“‘She will not lack,’ said Major Conrad, with 
pride. ‘Conradstein is the gem of the Inselburg! 
I have money — wealth even — My revenues were 
carefully hoarded in my absence and during these 
years of useless sorrow!’ 

“‘But Annette !’— the soldier's frame was raked 
with a storm of grief. ‘If she is her mother’s 
child — what can I hope!’ 

“Before midnight sounded from the old clock 


262 


THE PASSING SHOW 


in the great hall, Ludwig von Conrad, gazed, 
with wolfish eyes at the gleaming windows of 
Rysdyck Hall, where his wife queened it under 
another name, and his child slept the dreamless 
sleep of innocence, ignorant of a father’s love! 

“Sunlight sparkling among the trees brought 
life to the manor once more! With eager gaze, 
Ludwig von Conrad awaited the return of Colo- 
nel Philip, who came clattering down the park 
close on his old charger ‘Yorktown, ’ with a rosy, 
blue eyed, golden haired maiden on a pony, 
pacing gaily by her uncle, the daily companion 
of her rides. 

“With beating heart, the soldier descended 
the stairway and fondly clasped the shy child in 
his arms. All the discipline of his stern life was 
tried in the repression of the moment! The 
pretty child, shyly wondered at the stranger’s 
tenderness and gazed timidly at the purple semi- 
circle of the slashing rebel swordsman. 

“In loving mercy, Colonel Philip rode away and 
daily forgot not to bring the little lass back and 
linger where her hungry-hearted sire could gaze 
on her from his casement. 

“Days drifted along. And yet no sign was 


THE PASSING SHOW 


2C3 


given to Annette Seaton. The placid semi- 
avoidance of Colonel Philip, left the Hall open 
to the haughty Tory country gentry who re- 
mained — for many had fled to Halifax and the 
British west Indies. Colonel Rysdyck’s name 
was a protection to his sister, even though her 
husband was a Tory. Several visits to New 
York, and days spent with Colonel Philip’s ad- 
vocates brought about the discovery of obstacles. 
Ludwig von Conrad spoke but little. His eyes, 
weary and sorrow haunted, showed the fierce 
fire of an internal conflict. Though his lips 
were dumb, even to his friend, he had seen An- 
nette, his wife — the mother of his child, in the 
ripe glory of a perfected beauty, riding proudly 
out, with the huntsmen, and dominating the 
aristocratic throng in her easy, insolent way. 
The fatal legacy of the Rysdyck pride was hers, 
and the leaven of Eleanor Carteret’s heartless 
egoism was working. For Annette Seaton was 
the first Lady of the Island. Colonel Conrad saw 
her rolling by, in colonial glory, with footmen and 
outriders to the dinners and ceremonies of the re- 
habilitated squirearchy. Yet, his lips were sealed. 
The passionate devotion to his child seemed to 


264 


THE PASSING SHOW 


blot out a personal love, and all selfish thoughts 
in his joy at the existence of the graceful girl 
who was some day to pass the portals of proud 
Conradstein and stand under its trophied walls, 
hung with the faces of generations of knights 
and ladies as the Countess von Conrad. Colo- 
nel Conrad had gained the chiefship of his line 
by the failing of the elder branch. 

“Many nights and days the two friends pon- 
dered and finally their labors finished, waited for 
a last opinion from the highest sources of the 
canon law. The verdict was against the rights 
of the new Count von Conrad. The secret mar- 
riage, performed by an army chaplain, who 
though in orders, was not the Anglican parish in- 
cumbent, — the lack of the publication of bans — 
the absence of registry and witnesses and the 
failure to show the consent of parents, and the 
full age of the bride, left it as aright of the Lady 
of Rysdyck Hall to recognize the marriage or 
ignore it, for a formal annulment was in her 
power. Bowed in grief, and silence, Colonel 
von Conrad pondered for days. With Philip 
Rysdyck, he roved at night over the shores of 
the sound and sought counsel of the waves and 
the silent forest. 


THE PASSING SHOW 


265 


“The snows of early winter fell before Lud- 
wig von Conrad made his final choice. ‘Philip, 
you must see her! You must tell her all! In 
deference to Seaton (who is innocent) I ask a 
private interview’ here in your home! I must 
have the child! I hunger for the child! These 
stolen glimpses are simply maddening! Margue- 
rite must have her rights as Countess von Con- 
rad, even though her father’s heart breaks in 
silence!’ Philip Rysdyck had faced the bat- 
teries at Yorktown with less fear than he ap- 
proached his worldly sister. He knew the 
meanness of her nature at last! ‘She loves 
you , if she loves anything in the world, ’ said the 
Hessian noble! ‘Try and see what you can 
do!’ Philip waited for the absence of Sea- 
ton, on a trip to New York. With grave caution, 
he told the strange tale to Annette, as she sat, 
her rich beauty heightened by gleaming jewels, 
by her fireside in the great hall where her 
haughty parents’ faces looked down in crystal- 
lized arrogance. With a comrade’s love, Philip 
pleaded as for a man’s life. When he had fin- 
ished, Annette Seaton bounded from her chair. 
‘And you expect me to believe this fool’s tale! 


266 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


Ludwig von Conrad rests under the sward of Red 
Bank! This is some impostor who deludes you! 
My rank, my birthright belongs to me ! I listen 
to no such tales! If he is the man he claims to 
be, where has he lingered these long years! Not 
a word, not a line!’ The haughty aristocrat 
hardened her proud heart. Philip told the story 
of her mother’s fiendish treachery. 4 Away ! 
This is a dream! I have examined every paper ! 
Not a trace of such letters!’ It was true. 
Eleanor Rysdyck’s work was only too well done! 
‘I know more! I have had the whole matter 
examined. True, Conrad’s body was not found. 
But Seaton probed the legal questions. The un- 
ion was irregular ! I gave up my freedom, to save 
your life! You can not reproach me!’ Colonel 
Philip winced, and after battling long, was fain 
to retire defeated and saddened. 

“His sister absolutely declined to continue the 
subject and refused to see the man returned from 
the dead! 

“Colonel Rysdyck’s face sadly told the story 
of defeat as he rejoined Count von Conrad. In 
desperation, the Hessian cried: ‘I will have the 
child, if it costs my life!’ 


THE PASSING SHOW 


26? 


“The friends sought their pillows in silence for 
Rysdyck could not face poor Conrad’s anguish. 
On the next evening, Colonel Rysdyck entered 
Conrad’s rooms where he sat gloomily watching 
the leaden skies. 

“ ‘My poor friend!’ he said. ‘Be brave at the 
last. I must tell you!’ Philip’s voice was 
broken. 

“The child — the child,’ Conrad faltered. 

“ ‘Was taken away last night, the very mo- 
ment that Seaton returned from New York. A 
double sleigh and several following with luggage 
and attendants took the whole party away at 
full speed. I have a trusty man following them. ’ 

“Major Conrad threw himself on the couch and 
turned his face to the wall. 

“Two weeks later, the Hall was lit up and the 
rulers of the fireside laughed merrily as they 
talked of the good packet ‘Esperance,’ already 
well on her way to London, where Seaton’s high 
bred English relatives were ready to undertake 
the nurture and education of the lovely stranger 
heiress. 

“The child was gone, beyond all hope and 
control, Ludwig von Conrad glided ghost-like 


268 


THE PASSING SHOW 


around the house. He passed his lonely days 
in hunting. His nights dragged away in 
revery. Even Philip was silent before the awful 
sadness brooding on the lonely soldier’s face! 

“‘Philip,’ said the nobleman, as the Christmas 
tide drew near, ‘I have remade my will! I 
have left all to Marguerite. In this sealed 
packet, addressed to her are my patents of 
nobility, and commissions. I have laid down 
every direction for my beloved child to gain her 
rights. To you, in this package, I leave a sealed 
envelope, with a letter to be given her on her 
eighteenth birthday. Be sure that your trust is 
fulfilled! In case accident should happen, you 
must delegate the powers to some trusted friends 
or authorities here. I have also written for my 
daughter the story of my life. I know you will 
be true to me!’ ‘I swear it,’ cried the gallant 
American. 

‘“Then, I shall be happy in my lonely grave, 
for my sacred love will bless my darling child, 
even beyond the grave! I have placed my min- 
iature therewith, so that Marguerite may look 
on my face, the face of her father as he was once, 
even in the years to come! But, silence on your 


THE PASSING SHOW 


269 


soul as to this, if her mother lives! It is a secret 
trust of honor!’ ‘I accept it,’ cried Philip, 
clasping the failing man’s thin hands. 

“Christmas eve at the Hall this year was a 
feast of the grandest display ! From far and near, 
the magnates gathered, and the banquet hall 
shone with crystal and plate. The grand draw- 
ing-rooms, wreathed with holly, and branched 
mistletoe, were filled with bright hearted beau- 
ties and gallant gentlemen. Across the close, 
Colonel Rysdyck’s modest lodge showed no 
signs of merriment. Philip had never crossed 
the threshold of the Hall since the night when 
his hard hearted sister denied a last interview 
the father of her child! His lip curled as 
he gazed at the joyous riot around the old Hall 
where his callous sister revelled, in virtue 
of his forbearance, for he was the lawful head of 
the house. Turning away, he was startled as 
Count Ludwig von Conrad entered the room. The 
Hessian -noble was in the full uniform of his rank 
as Lieutenant Colonel of the Elector’s Guards. 
Even sword and pistols were not wanting. A 
strange animation beamed on his face, and his 
eyes shone with an unwonted fire. His gloved 


270 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


hands, with rich lace ruffles spoke the courtier 
and on his arm a long cloak indicated departure ! 
In his right hand, the gold laced chapeau was 
held! 

“‘What means all this?’ cried Colonel Philip. 

“‘I am going to the Hall! I shall see her 
but once more , — -face to face /’’There was an iron 
firmness on the aristocratic features of the scarred 
veteran. 

“Philip Rysdyck knew the proud noble too well 
to dissuade him. In mute astonishment, he 
followed him to the door. On the threshold, 
Conrad turned and grasped Philip in a manly 
embrace. ‘Never forget your trust! May God 
bless you, Philip, and your home!’ He passed 
out into the night. 

“Colonel Rysdyck threw himself into a chair 
before the fire! Vague shadowy horrors haunted 
his mind! A duel! A tragedy! A wild melee! 
What would the issue be? 

“In a pause of the minuet, Annette Seaton was 
approached by the aging butler, who had seen 
two generations of the Rysdycks carried out of 
the old oaken doors. 

“‘My lady! Pray come into the corridor! 


THE PASSING SHOJV 


m 

There waits at the door a foreign officer, in 
splendid costume who wishes to see you ! I can 
not find the Squire!’ 

“ ‘He asked for me?’ said Annette, her voice 
shaking. 

“‘Yes! madame!’ the stately servitor an- 
swered. Cowardice had no place in the Carteret 
blood whose motto was ‘Fear naught,’ whose 
crest a mailed hand holding a brandished sword. 

“Sweeping to the grand portals, as the old 
man swung them aside, the sound of the Christ- 
mas bells rang out on the frosty air. The 
snow stretched pure and white far away, tree 
and hedge gleaming silver in the starlight. 

“The chivalric figure of Count Ludwig von 
Conrad at the open door was like an appari- 
tion! His noble head was bared, as stretching 
forth his arms he cried, ‘Annette, my wife, 
speak to me ! Speak but once ! Where is my 
child? Our child, Annette!’ Pale as a ghost, 
the marble hearted woman turned on her 
heel without a word! The rich court train 
had not swept its length toward the ball- 
room whence the merry music sounded, 
when a sharp report rang out ! A scream, an 


272 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


echo of woman’s agony called the revellers l 
Lying across the threshold, his head resting on 
the knee of the frightened butler, the dying man 
moaned, ‘Tell Philip — Marguerite’ — and the 
brave soldier was at rest ! His hand still clenched 
firmly the smoking pistol and the blood of the last 
of the von Conrads crimsoned the rich embroi- 
dery and glittering stars upon his lifeless breast! 

“‘Who was he?’ cried a dozen voices, as the 
gallants crowded the hall. In their rear, timid 
women, in satins decked for the feast huddled 
behind their protectors! 

“‘The last Lord of Conradstein, and the right- 
ful husband of your hostess. His head rests on 
the threshold of the home he was driven away 
from!” So rang out the stern accents of Col- 
onel Philip Rysdyck! 

“A cloak caught up, shrouded his martial form, 
and a silence as of the grave fell on the gay 
throng. The music stopped with a sudden crash ! 
Dashing through the crowd, Fenwick Seaton 
cried: ‘What is this! Explain!’ 

“‘Silence! In this presence be dumb! Ask 
the woman who is your wife at last!’ 

“On his knees beside his dead friend, Philip 
Rysdyck felt the stilled heart l 


THE PASSING SHOJV 


273 


“‘It is all over!’ He rose! An attendant dart- 
ed away to the Colonel’s lodge! 

“Touch him not! At your peril,’ cried the 
guardian of the dead. He took the pistol from 
the nerveless hand of the dead noble and drew 
the other from its place. Borne by his own men, 
the Master of Rysdyck, Colonel Philip took away 
the corpse of the gallant Hessian. 

“Under the midnight stars, an instant hegira 
occurred. With scant ceremony, the Hall was 
abandoned by the merry makers and the untast- 
ed banquet stood mocking the empty room! 
That night the great doors of Rysdyck Hall were 
bolted forever, and no human foot ever pressed 
again the stone where the chivalric Conrad’s gray 
head lay in death! 

“Before Colonel Rysdyck and his friends laid 
the alien soldier under the oaks of the God’s 
acre, Fenwick Seaton and his consort were ready 
to embark for England. 

“Sternly declining any communication, Colonel 
Philip Rysdyck accepted the return of his ances- 
tral home. The manor steward handed a letter 
from Fenwick Seaton to the rightful master 
which was received without a word. If idle 


274 


THE PASSING SHOW 


tongues babbled of the past, it was far from 
the presence of Philip Rysdyck, whose flint like 
face was set in an enforced composure. It was 
he who placed the monument you see above the 
turf beneath which his friend rested. Grave and 
yet silently unwearying Colonel Rysdyck went on 
and up to the highest honors of the growing com- 
munity. The construction of Seaton Hall was 
suspended, and the gossip gallants mourned over 
the proposed permanent absence of the beautiful 
Annette and her husband. Time sped on and sil- 
ver threads mingled with Colonel Philip’s brown 
locks. It was no seven day wonder that he 
finally accepted a representation in the congress 
of the land he had fought for. The years rolled 
away with no sign of a return of the absent Sea- 
tons. Even with the aid of the American Minis- 
ter, Colonel Rysdyck could gain no news of the 
bright eyed child he mourned, Marguerite — 
Countess von Conrad. In the long nights, he 
paced his rooms when at the lodge, and dreamed 
of Ludwig von Conrad’s trust. There was a 
gust of the wildest local rumors as the second 
presidency of General Washington began, for 
scores of workmen were busied both at the 


THE PASSING SHOW 


275 


unfinished Seaton Hall, and at Rysdyck. 

“There was no one to enlighten the eager 
dames and local gallants. Colonel Rysdyck, 
gravely courteous, lived in retired dignity and 
the steward of the Seaton estate was as silent 
as the same official at Rysdyck Hall. 

“Returning citizens of note brought news of 
the appearance of Colonel Philip Rysdyck at 
the President’s levees, with a lovely woman on 
his arm, still beautiful, though no longer in the 
first flush of womanhood. It was easy to con- 
jure up a romance as to the early love of the 
patriot officer for the gentle lady now his wife. 
It was an episode of his Virginia campaigns. It 
was then for the bride that the old Hall was being 
decorated. At their home coming, beyond a single 
round of ceremonial visits, the grave Colonel 
abjured the hearty hospitalities of the time, 
though no stranger or sufferer passed his door 
unrelieved. A colony of old soldiers, fed on his 
bounty, spread stories far and wide of the prow- 
ess of their benefactor under the very eye of the 
great Virginian. 

“The spring of seventeen hundred and ninety- 
five brought a cavalcade to Seaton Hall. It 


276 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


was singular that few cared to ask or know of 
the well being of the haughty yet still hand- 
some woman in widow’s weeds who queened it at 
Seaton Hall! Colonel Rysdyck raised his hat 
in solemn courtesy as their carriages passed, for 
by the side of his implacable sister sat a beauti- 
ful girl, who wondered at her mother’s silence 
when she asked who the distinguished looking 
officer was, with his delicate and graceful wife. 
The death of Fenwick Seaton in the far away 
hunting fields, of England left Annette, alone in 
the world, her childless second marriage making 
Marguerite the sole heiress of the Rysdyck estates. 

“With a shudder, Annette Seaton, noted that 
a great window had been set in the old hall 
door of the house of her birth, and a stately en- 
trance built opening into the main hall. She 
turned her head away from the reminder of that 
awful Christmas Eve Ball! 

“The curse of the innocent blood had come 
home to her at last. The approaching close of 
Marguerite’s last year of minority brought grave- 
faced lawyers to confer with Dame Annette Sea- 
ton. The formalities of the settlement of the 
Rysdyck estate were easily adjusted. Haughty 


THE PASSING SHOW 


217 


Annette yielded when Colonel Rysdyck re- 
quested a conference alone with the heiress on 
her eighteenth birthday. She knew well that her 
gallant brother would be just and faithful to the 
quick and the dead! 

There was general surprise when the equipage 
of Colonel Rysdyck bore away the heiress from 
Seaton House for a sojourn at Rysdyck Hall. It 
was on the eve of her eighteenth birthday that 
the light foot of the beloved child passed over 
the threshold of the long forgotten house of her 
birth. Before the young beauty’s eyes closed 
in sleep, she was drawn heart to heart to her 
soldierly uncle and his sweet voiced wife. 

“On the morrow, Colonel Rysdyck claimed 
the girl for the execution of the trust of years. 
There were no festivities to interrupt, for 
Madame Annette, jealous of even her daughter’s 
youth, and implacably embittered against the 
dead father of her only child, held no rejoicings 
at the new Seaton Hall. She coldly ignored 
the country side. 

“It was in silence that Marguerite raised 
her beautiful eyes when Colonel Rysdyck 
finished his revelation. She kissed the time 


278 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


stained seals of the package, and opened it with 
tears gemming her lashes. The handsome noble 
smiled on her from the miniature in the pride 
of his youth and vigor! Eagerly reading the 
pages, she handed them to her uncle who was 
intently watching her, rapt in admiration of 
her chastened loveliness. 

“Pressing her father’s picture to her breast, 
she said at last: ‘And I am not Marguerite 
Seaton? It is all a dream !’ 

“‘You are Marguerite, the Countess von Con- 
rad! my beloved child! You are the Lady of 
Conradstein!’ 

“‘Oh! Mother! Mother! ’ cried the girl, with 
choking sobs, as she fixed her loving eyes on 
the picture of the man who blessed her from 
the grave. With reverent glance, she gazed on 
the stars and orders, the patents, and the sealed 
will of her dead sire. His graven crest on a 
superb family seal was the last legacy! 

“‘My child!’ said Colonel Rysdyck, after a 
full examination had been made of all. ‘It is 
your duty now to decide. You have a noble 
name, a great estate, a birthright, and a trust 
Warn your dead father! You should go to Ger- 


THE PASSING SHOW 


279 


many and claim and obtain the possession of 
your princely house! You can then return!’ 

‘“You are my only friend, dear uncle!’ cried 
the loving girl. ‘I can no longer trust my 
mother. Take me to him ! — Take me to my 
father’s grave !’ 

“In the warm afternoon sunlight, Marguerite 
von Conrad stood for the first time by the grassy 
mound covering her noble father. The path 
around it was worn by Colonel Rysdyck’s feet. 
The roses blooming there were trained by the 
hands of the gentle Virginian wife. 

“‘Father! If you could only hear me!’ cried 
the loving child of forgotten years, as she knelt 
and kissed the roses blooming over him! Philip 
Rysdyck turned away his feet and left the child 
at the new altar of an awakened love! 

“In two weeks, Colonel Rysdyck made a pil- 
grimage to Philadelphia and the German Minis- 
ter graciously forwarded with official courtesy 
the correspondence and legal papers touching 
Marguerite’s rights. 

“A stormy interview between mother and 
daughter showed Annette that she had lost her 
child’s confidence forever. A letter from Col- 


280 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


onel Philip Rysdyck turned the scale for all time ! 

“ ‘Mother,’ said the spirited girl who now rec- 
ognized the cold deceit of years. ‘It is useless 
to talk to me! You have left it to others to 
tell me even who I am! Hence, as you know 
Uncle Philip is a spotless hero, the most hon- 
ored citizen of Long Island, why should I not 
choose to be my real self, Marguerite, Countess 
von Conrad. You have not made me happy! 
You have not made yourself happy! You have 
left it to others to plant roses on my father’s 
lonely grave! You have never even seen it! But 
you did see him kill himself for one kind word 
from your lips!’ 

“In the month before the little Countess 
sailed from New York, under the care of a mem- 
ber of the German Ambassador’s family return- 
ing home, the whole past was revealed to Mar- 
guerite. Her favorite haunt, late and early, was 
the grassy enclosure where her father rested. 
With grave caution, Colonel Philip begged the 
ardent girl to avoid the dews and damp of 
morning and evening. 

“When the packet ‘Orpheus’ sailed from New 
York bound for Hamburg, it was Colonel Philip 


THE PASSING SHOW 


281 


and his gentle wife who waved adieu to Mar- 
guerite von Conrad, standing leaning on the arm 
of the pleasant German lady from whose friendly 
lips she first learned of the glories of her castle 
at Conradstein. 

“Alone, in the colonial magnificence of Sea- 
ton Hall, with a canker at her proud heart, un- 
forgiving Annette Seaton passed her time in 
solitary bitterness! 

“‘He has stolen my child from me, even from 
the other world, his vengeance follows me!’ 

“The childless widowed beauty turned from 
the windows gazing on Rysdyck Hall with a 
muttered curse. 

“Another spring brought its breath of awaken- 
ing life and the breezes wafted the fragrance of the 
roses over Count von Conrad’s tomb away in their 
frolic sport through woods and blossoming 
orchards. There was a small piping voice at 
Rysdyck Hall lifted up, the voice of Peter 
Rysdyck, of the Colonel’s welcome heir! Joy 
reigned in the Hall and it was afterwards known 
that only at Seaton Hall, a stony-hearted 
woman railed in bitter enmity at the news 
bringing joy to the whole countryside. 


THE PASSING SHOIY 


2«2 

“There was peace, prosperity and happiness 
around the brother! The lonely sister ruled 
her domain with a rod of iron. 

“With a shadowed brow, Colonel Philip hand- 
ed his gentle wife a few months later, a huge 
letter covered with black seals. ‘My own 
darling! We shall never see our beloved Mar- 
guerite again!” he softly said, as his wife laid her 
head sobbing on his breast!’ 

“Through her tears, the gentle Virginian read 
of the death of the little Countess. In her own 
proud home, surrounded with loving hearts and 
in the flower of young womanhood, the ap- 
proach of disease was as silent as its course was 
rapid, 

“It was no mitigation of the sorrow that to 
her beloved uncle, the gentle American born 
girl bequeathed her accumulated wealth for little 
Peter. 

“In deference to the mother, Colonel Philip 
at once fitly communicated the tidings. No 
word of recognition ever came ! If Annette 
Seaton ever had a heart, she showed it to no 
human being.” 

The old man rose and led me away from 
the enclosure. 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


283 


“And Annette Seaton? What of her last 
days?” I asked. 

“I was quite a lad when she was found seated 
in her chair, silent and cold! Not a paper, 
not a memento was left. The estate went to the 
alien English heirs who sold it. Not a stone 
stands now of Seaton Hall. 

“Full of years and honors my father and 
mother passed away,” sighed the old man, “but 
the fates are against the line of the old Rys- 
dycks. The mysterious resentment of the Gods 
has followed relentlessly the crime of the old 
days — the landing of the embattled foreign host 
thirsting for innocent blood.” 

“Truly,” said the old squire, “Vengeance is 
mine, saith the Lord! I will repay!’ ’ 

I have never revisited the despoiled manor, 
but even now, my heart turns fondly to the dis- 
tant crags of Conradstein where the little Count- 
ess sleeps, in her father’s stronghold, far away 
from the surge swept sands of Long Island. 



“HOW BILLY HITCHINS 
WENT HOME,” 


CALIFORNIA. 

1857. 

I T was undeniable that the big box stove in 
Dave Reavis’ store was the most inviting ren- 
dezvous in Little York on a rainy afterhoon in 
late October, 1857, for cold and cheerless was 
the wind whistling down the old emigrant trail, 
and the driving rain obscured the new sign of 
the Blue Wing saloon on the other side of the 
plaza. 

Little rivers so’ught channels amidst the twist- 
ed roots of the giant pines swaying uneasily in 
the gusts which brought down green spray and 
dried branch in disagreeable confusion. 

The lonely plaza tilled on one breast of a red 
234 


THU PASSING SHOW 


285 


clay hill was deserted, save by two villainous- 
looking Mexicans, swathed in serapes, serenely 
and with discrimination pushing two stolen 
steeds out of town, after purchasing cartridges 
and “aguadiente” and asking for the Hornitos 
trail, which, it is needless to remark, they did 
not mean to follow. 

Closed was the livery stable, butcher shop 
and blacksmith forge to the east; to the south 
two private residences showed closed doors and 
veiled windows; to the west the hotel, “Blue 
Wing” and gambling shop made a gallant strug- 
gle against the peculiar depression of the day, 
while on the north, the stores, stables and ware- 
houses of the controlling commercial magnate, 
were open to such necessary attempts at trade 
as the purchase of gold dust, (for cash), or the 
exchange of bacon, flour and good whisky for 
bad accounts on a series of already overloaded 
books. 

The crowd of miners and loafers, calmly 
watching with lazy satisfaction the combustion 
of a quarter of a cord of fat pine wood in a giant 
stove, regaled itself from time to time with 
stories more or less veracious or decent, and in 


28(5 


THE PASSING SHOW 


a warm corner, Tennessee Jack, the Judge, Long 
Harry West, (the expressman), and Handsome 
Dick, (a gentleman who left New York City by 
request), were engaged in financially sustaining 
their private ideas of classic poker. 

In was a day of idleness. Steep Hollow 
could not be forded. Bear River, which roared 
a thousand feet below in its rocky gorges, was 
impassable, and the Illinoistown trail was in- 
visible in the driving storm. For these suffici- 
ent reasons, as no one could go to Nevada, 
Dutch Flat, or Auburn, the whole idle population 
lingered in this “first-class camp.” 

The only other exit was direct over the Sierra 
to St. Joe, Mo. — past the undiscovered hun- 
dreds of millions lying deeply hidden in the Com- 
stock and over thousands of miles unspanned 
yet by the iron rail, and where the buffalo and 
Sioux yet outnumbered the tenderfeet of these 
later and degenerate days. 

The lazy clerks watched their motley custo- 
mers and saw them furtively disappear in the 
adobe warehouse to try the merits of a certain 
old Pelvoisin brandy, lurking brown and oily in 
French case with a tin cup attached, for it 




THE PASSING *H01V 


287 


was in the good old time when James Buchanan 
reigned over us, and before the hot, red breath 
of war had cleared the rusty throats of our anti- 
quated cannon. 

The judiciously distributed profanity of the 
poker quartette alone broke a general silence 
to which warmth, whisky and weariness had all 
contributed, when the door opened and the 
beaming though dripping face of Billy Hitchins 
appeared. 

General social movement of chairs and proffer 
of three fingers of free whisky and a seat. A 
prompt acceptance of both was given by the 
wet and wearied miner who had done his two 
miles a5 ,d a half up the winding trail from 
Bear River, breasting the storm with the sturdy 
pluck of a Briton, for Billy was a bright Cor- 
nish lad of twenty-seven, whose quiet cheerful 
ways had made him a general favorite. 

He cabined alone in a little nook near Bear 
River, where he had a bank claim and toiled, in 
solitude save the chattering companionship of a 
few Chinese, who were already cleaning up the 
abandoned river claims, skimmed by the rest- 
less and unthrifty whites. With them “Pill 


288 


THE PASSING SHOW 


Hitchin” was a “belly good man,” and so cheer- 
fully he toiled on, thinking of a dear old mother 
away in far England, and of the fast-growing de- 
posits in Birdseye’s Ba-fik at Nevada, which were 
to make him welcome in his home coming. 

Sundry sealed oyster cans hidden in his cab- 
in were filled with shining gold dust, to provide 
the means to travel, and it was to settle his ac- 
count and give notice of departure that the lone- 
ly lad appeared at the store on this dreary 
afternoon. 

It was soon noised about that Billy had sold 
his bank claim to the sly, good-natured Chinese 
who marKed his steady returns and was to give 
up possession on the morrow, only reserving the 
right to clear up his ground sluice and leave a 
clean set of boxes and riffles for the Mongolian 
partners, who were already weighing up the pur- 
chase price in dust, and with reed stylus and 
Chinese yellow paper slips were figuring up 
with keen eyes the deposit due from Ah Sam, 
Hop Kee, SunWe and the other wanderers from 
the Flowery Land, who now ornamented Bear 
River crossing. 

“Going home.” Magic words. “Made his 


THE PASSING SHOW 


289 


pile” — A general chorus: — “Lucky dog.” It 
was vaguely understood the pile was about 
$27,000 with the addition of the price of the 
bank, of which Billy had been the managing 
partner at the end of a long-handled shovel, and 
the sly nest egg concealed in the lonely cabin. 

Sailor Bill, an old man-o’-war’s man, sug- 
gested “as how Billy ’ud do the harnsome thing” 
before leaving, and after settling some prelim- 
inaries, Billy departed, as the storm was already 
lessening, having engaged several pack mules 
to bring on the morrow, his few personal effects 
up to the “Burg,” as it was proudly called. 

Men envied the honest lad, who had not 
turned the^golden tide of fortune down his 
throat, or obstinately expended it in supporting 
peculiar notions as to the relative order of exit 
of the last three cards from the faro cases pre- 
sided over by the handsome French woman who 
ornamented the “Arcade.” 

The cold rain ceased splashing, forgot to pat- 
ter, and the bright laughing stars sparkled in 
the clearest skies on earth. The swaying pines 
seemed to swell their generous breasts and gently 
murmur, “Going home: Yes! Going home!” 


290 


THE PASSING SHOW 


In many a straggling cabin, that night, were 
little parcels made up for “Billy” to leave at the 
Bay, or in New York, and Sailor Bill borrowed 
a beautiful specimen to send to “The girl he 
left behind him !” the buxom lass who presided 
over the bar of the “Foul Anchor,” at Ports- 
mouth. 

By the flickering candle light, here and there, 
roughened hands wrote words of cheer to ab- 
sent ones at home, for this was the first friendly 
chance in two years. Joaquin Murieta,the robber, 
(he of the velvet eyes and ready revolver), had a 
habit, more or less annoying, of lighting his 
camp fire with miners’ letters extracted from 
the captured express box without the consent of 
Wells, Fargo & Co.’s Directors, and frequently 
torn from the saddle pouches of the dying mes- 
senger, whose glazing eye mutely protested 
against such non-Castilian impropriety. 

Morning in the mountains! Far reaches of 
blue distance touched with liquid gold, down 
the pine-clad canons poured the sparkling shafts 
of light, and dark gorgesgave up their shadows, 
prisoners to these bright lancers of the growing 
day. 


THE PASSING SHOW 


291 


Little York shook itself up, — assumed its re- 
spective burdens of toil or laziness, blinking vice 
was sleeping off its last night’s drunk— the ring- 
ing sound of the blacksmith’s hammer was mu- 
sically breaking the sweet silence, and the rattle 
of the dice box was hushed in the Arcade, where 
no sound was audible, save the buzzing of the 
half-inebriate flies and the tinkle of the bar- 
keeper’s spoon as he mixed “the same” for old 
Colonel Howard of Virginia. The Colonel was 
on his way to Sacramento to try the celebrated 
case of the “Five-Spot Company” against the 
“Natchez Belle.” Higher climbed the golden 
sun and passed the meridian ! 

It was two o’clock when shouts broke the 
drowsy stillness of the camp. A breathless 
bare-headed Chinaman shuffling up from Bear 
River, fell exhausted in front of the store and 
panted out, “Pilly Hitchin, Pilly Hitchin! Him 
bank cave ini” “Billy killed! Great God, 
boys! Billy’s under the bank!” yelled Lazy 
Jones, the idlest lounger in town, as he led off 
a motley procession of the bystanders, at an 
unprecedented speed. 

Deserted was shop, forge and saloon, as the . 


292 


THE PASSING SHOW 


whole town streamed along the narrow trail. 
Long, indeed, were the two and a half miles, 
albeit down hill, and many a good heart fell out 
in that heroic race for another’s life! As the 
spot where the high red bank gaped its ugly 
jaws was neared, the chattering cries of the ex- 
cited Mongolians were heard. 

The gurgling ripples of Bear River seemed to 
cry “Hurry! Hurry !” while the tall forest trees 
sadly whispered, with rustling lips: “Gone 
home! Gone home!” “Turn on the sluice, boys, 
we’ll wash him out !” cried handsome Nell Hicks, 
who now sleeps, far from home, on the same 
red hillside. It was the work of a moment! 

The frightened Chinese had brought all their 
picks and shovels, and as our friends madly 
hastened down the trail, a hundred stout arms 
were working with frenzy, in hopes the thirty 
feet of soft red surface earth might yield up its 
prey alive. 

At last, at last, the sickening sound of a shovel 
striking a* soft, yielding body, was heard, and 
poor Billy lay before us, pale yet warm. A 
professional opinion was calmly given by hand- 
some Ned Boland, who left the doctor’s scalpel 
in Dublin, for the shovel in California. 


THE PASSING SHOW 


2B3 


“Gentlemen! No hope!” said Ned, as he 
brushed the chestnut curls away from his fore- 
head, and, I think, a tear from his honest Irish 
eye. The frightened Chinese clustered around 
us, and the declining day began to throw a soft 
pall of shadows over the scene of death. The 
rushing river sang shrilly over its rocks “Too 
late! Too late!” While the great swell of the 
forest organ moaned “Gone home ! Gone home!” 

A litter of poles was constructed, the poor 
bruised face veiled with a cloth, and slowly up 
the trail, borne by the willing arms of his rough 
friends, “Billy Hitchins” came for the last time 
to the camp! A committee was appointed by 
the Justice to take charge of his cabin, and when 
the cortege, swelled by all the male inhabitants 
of the ridge, reached the plaza, the darkness of 
night was upon us. The Justice’s oiiice was 
considered the fittest place for temporary rest, 
and there the poor lad’s last night above ground 
was passed. 

It was noticed as an evidence of nice discrimi- 
nation, that the Blue Wing had closed its doors, 
and decent whispers conveyed to the less guileless 
portion of the community, that the Arcade 


294 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


would deal no faro game for the first time In 
five years. 

The absence of jack Featherbridge, the 
dealer, would have necessitated this suspension, 
as it was already known that Jack was five 
miles away on his ride to Nevada after Parson 
Cleveland; remarking that “If coin would fetch 
the preacher, he’d have him on the first deal.” 
The time made by “Kicking Kate,” Jack’s mare, 
on this occasion stands yet unequalled, and is 
explained by his calm desire “to do poor Bil’y 
proud.” 

At the mass meeting, presided over by Colonel 
Howard, a series of resolutions passed nem. 
con., were prepared and neatly engrossed by 
Ned Gaylord, for transmission to the absent and 
aged mother whose only boy had “cleaned up 
his last ground sluice.” 

It was unanimously resolved “to do the square 
thing by Billy,” and “a committee of three, with 
full power,” was designated to take charge of the 
considerable effects, and prepare to send the 
glittering grains, for which he gave his life, to 
the dear old mother he toiled for. 

There was much decent emulation as to the 


THE PASSING ShOW 


205 


preparations for the funeral. It was decided 
the best that the camp could do, was not good 
enough for Billy. Already on the hillside, where 
the manzanitas were the handsomest, and a few 
live-oaks clustered in simple grace, near a giant 
sugar-pine, a spot was selected for his grave, as 
remote as possible from all contingency of further 
auriferous research. 

A guard of sobered men watched with decent 
gravity, by the fast stiffening frame of the peace- 
ful and lonely English lad who had silently 
made so many friends. The infrequency of 
death, other than by the agency of the Colt, or 
the flashing Bowie, gave to this untimely taking 
off a solemnity not usual. Already across the 
plaza could be heard the peculiar hollow tapping 
of the hammers on the coffin. 

It was understood, in default of funeral outfit, 
that the married women of the camp, three in 
number, had already agreed to provide a decent 
shroud and dressings at the expense of their long 
unused finery. 

It was not considered presumptuous when at 
the last, Mme. Celeste, (the handsome Parisian 
divinity of the table of fortune) silently offered 


296 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


a pillow made from a great square cut out of a 
satin ball dress, and perhaps overtrimmed with 
real lace, which had once risen and fallen on her 
bosom. This resulted in a quiet invitation to the 
funeral from the committee, who decided “that 
the Madame had done the clean, square thing, 
particularly as Billy never tried his luck at the 
game!” Ah! well was it for you, honest miners 
of the olden days, not to roughly turn away the 
offering of a passionate and impulsive heart. 

The delicate question of writing to his parent, 
was unanimously left to the three mothers resi- 
dent at the camp, and I am sure that tender tears 
fell that night over the little bundle of the Eng- 
lish woman’s letters and family relics handed, 
which were with his best Virginia bow and a 
slight clearing of the throat, to them, by Col- 
onel Howard. 

Poor old Colonel! It is to be hoped that some 
kindly woman cheered the last hours of your 
gallant boy, Chandler Howard, who tried to get 
inside of Hancock’s lines at Gettysburg in the 
later, then unborn, years. With the remnant 
of Pickett’s division he did not go back, but lay 
desperately wounded on the stricken field, re- 


the passing shoiv 


397 


membering his old Virginia motto, “Not to go 
back on anything.” 

Morning broke again, — calm and still, and up 
the wooded hill wound the little procession. By 
the open grave stood the entire population 
of the camp. The solemn words of Parson 
Cleveland fell cold and distinct as rifle shots, 
on the stillness of that bright mountain day. 
The wild miners listened, moved strangely by 
the unfamiliar utterances and lingered shyly 
with uncovered heads! 

At the head of the grave the three sobbing 
mothers gave evidence of womanly sympathy 
and modesty. At the outskirts of the crowd 
Mme. Celestine leaned on the arm of Jack 
Featherbridge, who calmly reasoned on this new 
discovery of feeling in his fair charge, whose 
silent tears attested her womanhood in common 
with her more virtuous sisters of the openly 
acknowledged world. 

Poor Jack! He was just as calm three months 
later, when he lay on the floor of the Magnolia 
Saloon at Grass Valley, with five ball holes in 
his breast, and faintly murmured, pointing to 
his shapely feet, “ Boots 1” They were taken 


298 


THE PASSING SHOJV 


off, and poor Jack slept far away from his fathers ! 

The mournful ceremony achieved, the pro- 
cession was slowly withdrawn, and a few brawny 
Cornish lads filled up the grave, which was short- 
ly inclosed with a stone wall. The parson was 
solemnly dined by the three families, Colonel 
Howard lending also his stately presence. 

Little knots of men discussed all the details of 
these obsequies with local pride, and it was agreed 
that Red Dog, Liberty Hill, and Dutch Flat 
could not have approached this eminently satis- 
factory handling of a sudden and saddening event 
by the people of the camp. 

The action of the committee in donating 
Billy’s cabin and loose tools to the kind-hearted 
Chinese who assisted so handsomely in the in- 
effectual attempt at rescue, was approved 
Hop Wo, (the running messenger), was made 
an especial favorite, and voted free from 
Caucasian violence forever. The committee of 
three was discharged upon the acknowledgment 
of the English Consul at San Francisco, of the 
receipts of the estate, and his stiff but hearty 
complimentary letter was long a local pride to 
the old-timers, 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


299 


Jack Featherbridge escorted the parson home 
to Nevada in knightly style, and the current of 
life in the camp ran its even way, only broken 
in several months by the receipt of a tender 
letter from the bereaved, waiting mother in far- 
off England, who begged to thank the “ three 
kind ladies ” and all the camp for their unex- 
pected kindness. 

Sailor Bill remarked “as how Billy’s been 
well done by,” and I have reason to know that 
the words of the thankful letter were also com- 
municated to Mme. Celestine, who was strangely 
moved thereat, being then darkened in sorrow , 
for the unreturning “Jack.” 

To-day the camp is lost. Yawning chasms 
show where hill and gorge have been moved 
away bodily by the giant search for gold, by 
great companies. There is no town of the name ; 
the dwellers therein are scattered, and the 
familiar places know the old times no more. 
Nothing left but the memory of the quaint old 
days, gone forever. Nothing speaks of the flush 
times! The plaza has gone bodily into Bear 
River, and only the main rock structure of the 
cleft gorge remains. 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


300 

Far on the heights the lofty pines sway and 
sing at night, and the rustling leaves whisper 
sadly of the past! You could not find to-day 
“Poor Billy Hitchins'” grave, and many of the 
actors in the little scene have learned the bright 
secrets hid beyond the shining stars. 

As I passed the ridge, on the railway, this old 
story came to me, and tears rose to my eyes 
as I thought of how poor Billy went home! 
Home! Home! Where we all go! — Whether' 
with tottering step, or bounding foot, we are all 
going there — and yet my memory lingers fondly 
around the old, lost, deserted camp — “Little 
York.” 



THE LOST BLUE JACKET. 

A REMINISCENCE OF THE AMERICAN 
CONSULATE AT MARSEILLES. 

B ITTERLY severe was the winter of 1871 in 
Marseilles. The close of “T annee terrible,” 
left France, wounded, bleeding and exhausted 
under the foot of a pitiless enemy. Bereft of terri- 
tory, struggling to raise five milliards to effect the 
release of other provinces, France had its suf- 
fering soldiers, returning prisoners, and exiled 
frontier population to relieve and protect. I 
had voyaged over the beautiful valleys of Alsace 
and Lorraine, verifying the grim handiwork of 
war. An appointment at the important United 
States Consulate at Marseilles, afforded me an 
official character, very useful to a traveller in 
those troubled times. All the recent battle-fields 
were visited, for in July and early August, France 
was yet in a state of chaos. A German divi- 
301 


302 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


sion proudly marching in full pane ply of war over 
the roads in the conquered territory, was a sight 
never to be forgotten by me. The heart broken 
peasants gazed with streaming eyes. 

Paris itself was a confused wreck. Smoking 
ruins marked the work of the “petroleuse.” 
Streets and houses were scourged with shot 
marks and “mitraille.” In the lovely Bois de 
Boulogne a full siege operation could be seen 
(as an object lesson) in the recently abandoned 
batteries. Pere-la-Chaise and Montmartre were 
yet strewed with the debris of the last stand of 
the Communists. The gates of Auteuil and 
Point du Jour, showed the accuracy of the Ver- 
saillist artillerists directing a murderous fire on 
their crazed brethren. St. Cloud and Versailles 
were in armed occupation, and still sixty thou- 
sand desperate, defeated French troops, were 
huddled around the heights, from which William 
was proclaimed the Imperator of the most suc- 
cessful invading army of modern times. 

Thousands of poor wretches were still confined 
as communists in the “ Orangery” at Versailles; 
where the royal children of France had often 
SDorted in glee. Near enough to almost hear 


THE PASSING SHOW 


303 


the volleys which ended the lives of those in- 
carnate fiends Ferre and Lullier at Satory, with 
poor gallant Rossell, a sacrifice to citizen re- 
venge. I sadly retraced the road to Paris. 

What processions, gay and grim, frenzied with 
blood or wine, drunk with gratified vanity, or 
humbled in defeat, have passed over these his- 
toric paths. A captive Louis, and his heart- 
broken Queen, moved once over thaj: road, with 
the head of lovely Princess Lamballe, carried 
on a pike as a ghastly ensign. Citizen Kings, 
Bourbonists, Presidents of France, the Napo- 
leons, from the Great to the Little, all France’s 
rulers have followed these roads in victory’s in- 
toxication, or fled in shame’s abasement from 
gay Lute'tia. Heights of Paris! From here, 
many a sovereign had breathed the last sigh 
over ruined greatness. “El Ultimo Sospiro!” 

I turned my steps away from the scenes where 
the Eagles of France were lowered to the dust, 
before the German conqueror. Over a disor- 
ganized railway, past fiery Lyons, down to the 
shores of the Mediterranean, I passed through 
excited communities, ablaze with impotent 
rage and wounded pride. Marseilles, queen of 


804 


THE PASSING SHOW 


the blue Mediterranean, proud heirloom of the 
old Phoenicians was reached at last. A few 
days found me comfortably installed, under a 
hideously emblazoned oval coat of arms of the 
United States of America, in the most important 
Consulate we have in the south of Europe. 
The Rue Sylvabelle was a pleasant quarter, and 
I was soon engrossed in my official duties. 

Marseilles was in a ferment. It needed the 
strong hand of the military Prefect, Count de 
Keratry, a most gallant cavalry general, to curb 
the lawless dwellers by the B uches du Rhone. 
The streets were thronged with the homeless 
poor, wounded and discharged soldiers, and all 
the human flotsam and jetsam of an unsuccess- 
ful war. 

As the fall wore on and winter advanced, a 
season of unusual severity added to the suffer- 
ings. A plentiful garrison hardly overawed the 
people, who elbowed the soldiers into the gut- 
ters, and openly insulting them, jeered them 
with pusillanimous defeat. Arrest was useless. 
The poor canaille were glad to have shelter and 
food, even at the price of libert 

Reactionary tumults in the theatres, an in- 


THE PASSING SHOW 


309 


flamed press, and the shooting of Cremieux and 
other ex-communists, kept up the popular ex* 
citement. Trade was disorganized, credit 
impaired, and only the sea traffic was lively; as 
from Marseilles, the varied productions of many 
of the rich internal French districts, must seek 
the markets of the world. By day and by night 
the less frequented streets were dangerous. 
Sailors, refugees, deserters, and discharged men 
of the foreign legion, swarmed around. They 
were a dangerous crew. Your French ruffian is 
the equal of any in the world. Our American 
Consul, a veteran Colonel, young in years, but 
old in experience, advised me to carry a re- 
volver; which I did, with the addition of a good 
club, perhaps after all, the very best weapon. 

The American Consuls in France, were acting 
German Consuls, as yet, by Minister E. B. Wash- 
burne’s courtesy. Able and manly, he did much 
to assist in restoring internal order in France. 
He was the pride of all Americans, who noted 
his superb personal influence in all works of 
charity, mercy and justice. Our German rela- 
tions made the American official staff very un- 
popular. The most romantic duties, often deli- 


300 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


cate, and even dangerous, were forced upon us. 
An intense desire to sacrifice any straggling Ger- 
man reaching Marseilles, was only restrained by 
fear. The floating American Flag covered many 
a poor devil, as an absolute physical refuge from 
mob violence, or even assassination. The ex- 
hibition of considerable money, or valuables, 
any where in Marseilles, was at the risk of life. 

We had our own careless child-like stranded 
sailors to protect. Mutinous crews, cruel cap- 
tains, and wandering adventurers were cast on 
our hands. Our official intercourse was bitter 
and disagreeable, save with the personal head- 
quarters of the gallant Keratry and the noble 
old Russian Consul General, Prince Troubetskoi, 
whose purse was open, ever, to the starving 
stranger poor. 

Among other singular duties entrusted to me, 
was the relief and safe forwarding to Germany 
of a beautiful young German prima donna, who 
had been cooped up during the latter part of the 
war in Marseilles. Rumor assigned her a very 
high lineage in blood, (if not in law) and the 
abundant pecuniary relief given her, came from 
the cabinet of a very exalted personage in Berlin ; 


THE PASSING SHOW 


307 


as well as secret orders from the splendid and 
fearless German ambassador at Paris, Count von 
Arnim. She was forwarded under safeguard to 
the nearest German lines at Belfort. She went 
literally singing on her way. Her last words 
were “Auf Wiederschen” with a very tender ex- 
pression of her blue eyes. Alas! I have never 
seen the lovely Fraulein since. 

The discharged German soldiers of the French 
Legion ’Etrangere from Africa, we also relieved 
and sent along under a rattling skirmish fire of at- 
tack and insult. It seemed as if the French had 
gone mad. Always excitable, the Marseillaise 
were simply beside themselves. The superb 
Hotel de Ville, parks and public buildings were 
despoiled of all their statues and Napoleonic 
ornaments. Frightful vandalism attended the 
destruction of every symbol of the dethroned 
Emperor. 

By day and night we all worked at our many 
duties, usual and unusual, our only relaxation 
being visits to the Opera, Theatre, or the Cafe 
Chantants, and the gorgeous “bals de minuit” 
at the Alcazar and El Dorado. There the revel- 
lers of a cosmopolitan sea-port, met the local 


308 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


beauties of the easy going city. All the thousand 
places of amusement, high and low, were in 
prosperous career. Life was a mere wild fever! 

Crowds of still defiant Communists howled 
with frantic joy when Suzanne Lazier would sing 
her famous song “Jacques Bonhomme apprend 
d lire.” Lazy French sous officers of the de- 
feated army applauded military lyrics of the late 
Opera-bouffe Empire, neglecting their half 
starved men and famishing horses. Life was 
hardly safe among these disorganized bravos, 
and violence was rife. The minor streets and 
lonely docks of the great port, were scenes of 
many tragedies. Every contrivance to entrap, 
rob, and delude, was in uninterrupted practice. 
The marine gendarmerie alone kept up the high 
character held by the French sailors during the 
entire unhappy war, and preserved order, as 
the civil authorities were about at their wits 
ends. Mysteries of the street and morgue were 
frequent, and my little sad romance came to me! 

Several months after my official debut, we 
received an official communication from the 
United States Department of State, informing 
us that a young American sailor, named Harry 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


309 


Morton, would be discharged from our fleet, 
then wintering at Ville Franche, and sent up by 
train to our Consulate. He had been released 
by the Secretary of the Navy, as being under 
age, having enlisted under misrepresentation. 
We were directed to receive him, furnish him 
with funds to any reasonable amount, and 
provide him with a first class through ticket, 
via. England to New York. He was referred 
to as young and inexperienced, of good family, 
and we were directed to effect his immediate 
return. 

Such cases were not unusual. The document 
was laid away for immediate reference on his 
arrival. Some letters were furnished from the 
Department to be delivered to him on his 
arrival; they had a formidable, legal appearance. 

“Probably some young fellow of good family, 
who ran away to sea and has fallen into a 
fortune,” said the good-humored Colonel, as he 
handed me back the letter, and resumed his of- 
ficial toil of glancing at the homelike columns of 
the New “York Herald,” and consuming as good 
a cigar as the enormous French taxes would 
permit i>s to indulge in. “Mark that ‘Impor- 


310 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


tant’ and put it on your ‘Immediate’ file,” re- 
sumed the Colonel. “When Morton comes, 
treat him decently, and let me see him. They 
evidently want him home at ance; I suppose he 
is a careless youngster.” 

In a few days I received an official letter from 
the Secretary of Rear Admiral Alden, (com- 
manding our Mediterranean fleet) at Ville 
Franche, that “Harry Morton had been duly dis- 
charged by the order of the Secretary of the 
Navy.” He was ordered to report to the Ameri- 
can Consul at Marseilles for immediate trans- 
portation to America. He had been furnished 
with a ticket to Marseilles, via Nice and Toulon. 
The same afternoon, a bright, splendid, manly 
looking young fellow in the uniform of an Amer- 
ican blue jacket, walked into the Chancellor’s 
office of the Consulate. He presented his dis- 
charge from the “Wachusett,” and was the 
bearer of a regular official letter to us. His 
frank sailor manner, and trim bearing, were 
tempered with that air of breeding which always 
indicates careful nurture in youth. I had all 
his papers and letters, and was directed to make 
a preliminary examination of matters, by the 


THE PASSING SHOW 


311 


Consul. The clerk brought Morton in to my 
room. I made him comfortable while he 
perused the letters I handed him. 

But a few days before, a common sailor, and 
forced to touch his hat to every one, he was now 
an American citizen “at large,” and the peer of 
any visitor from Columbia. I watched his hand- 
some face, in a play of varying emotions, as he 
read the correspondence. He finished his task. 
I asked him a few questions. He seemed em- 
barrassed and shy. I learned from him that he 
had only a year and a half of his enlistment to 
serve out, when the order came discharging him. 
He had served in the Atlantic squadron, and 
then in European waters. He described the 
life in the Mediterranean as “a pleasant yachting” 
cruise for the officers. He said he had been well 
treated in the main, in his service. “It’s a little 
rough on a man used to better things, sir,” said 
he, and then stopped suddenly. He described 
his sailings -from the Pillars of Hercules to the 
Golden Horn, and said he had learned a great 
deal of life. I was young myself, and sympa- 
thetic. I had but recently taken off the epaulette. 
I wondered what made a youth (evidently well 


312 


THE PASSING SHOW 


born) take up the simple restricted life of a blue 
jacket. 

“How did you come to enter the Navy, Mor- 
ton?” I asked. “Were you in love with reefing 
topsails? You could not share any of the junkets 
at Monte Carlo, Naples and Malta; or join in 
the festivities of the officers.” He looked grave. 
“It was family trouble, Sir; I ran away and 
joined the Navy to be safe.” I laughed in spite 
of my interest. It was a satire on our danger- 
ous maritime branch of the service. “Well, you 
are big enough to take care of yourself now!” I 
said. It was his turn to laugh. “I’m nearly 
twenty-one,” said he. “It’s all right.” 

Bethinking myself of the Consul’s orders, I 
showed the young man into the inner sanctum. 
He remained some time with the Colonel. I 
could hear their voices in earnest conversation. 
After half an hour he came out. I asked him 
to take a seat, and went in for the orders of my 
superior. “That’s a queer young fellow,” said 
the Consul. “He keeps his own counsel pretty 
well. Now I want you to take charge of him 
while he is here. Send for ‘Squires’ and have 
him treated well. To-morrow we’ll give him 


THE PASSING SHOW 


313 


five hundred dollars, on his receipt, and a through 
ticket home to iVmerica. Take receipts in trip- 
licate in the name of ‘Harry Morton.’ He won’t 
give any other. He seems very sensitive, and 
has had some worry in his boyhood; but he is a 
gentleman’s son. You might show him some 
little personal attentions, if you care to.’’ 

I promised to be kind to the lad, and when 
the Consul strolled away for his evening drive 
on the beautiful “Prado,” I asked Morton to dine 
with me. He was evidently pleased, but said 
“You see this rig, Sir?” “Never be ashamed of 
your country’s uniform,” said I, “while you wear 
it in honor. Many a brave heart has honored a 
blue jacket. We’ll fix that soon.” He accepted. 
When my overloaded desk was cleared, Squires 
arrived. He was the general Figaro of the 
Consulate and Naval agency. Ex- soldier, sailor, 
filibuster, and jack of all trades, he was board- 
ing master of the Consulate; a sort of purchasing 
agent of the fleet, and kept run of all the Ameri- 
cans (high and low) who visited the city of 
Monte Cristo. Sharp and reliable, he was a 
match for any one, and had seen his vicissitudes. 
In the service of Buenos Ayres, he had once 


314 


THE PASSING SHOW 


been rescued by a foreign officer, after the firing 
party had been told off to shoot him! His ener- 
getic profanity proved him a past master of the 
most emphatic English. 

Taking a carriage, we all drove to an estab- 
lishment where a neat suit, overcoat, hat, and 
small outfit., made my protegd quite another 
man. Save his rolling gait, he was the young 
American a la mode, on his travels. Squires 
drove down to his headquarters, bearing away 
the naval habiliments and Morton’s modest kit, 
which he had brought to the Consulate. The 
rest of the change of a couple of hundred franc 
notes, was in his pocket. We sauntered up and 
down the Prado, waiting the hour for dinner. 
Squires promised to give him the best accom- 
modations at his hotel; where the American 
ship captains delighted to enjoy every comfort. 
Tall, handsome, with a pair of winning brown 
eyes, and chestnut curls, the boy was really a 
fine fellow. The muscles developed by straining 
rope and oar, clothed his well knit form in sym- 
metry. Beyond the lack of cotemporary polish, 
(due to his interrupted education) he was a 
remarkably fine fellow. 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


315 


Over the claret and filets of a little dinner 
“dans un cabinet particulier” he told me some 
details of his life. “I was born not far from 
New York,” said he. “I would rather not say 
where, or give you my real name, just now. My 
father was a wealthy shipping merchant, and 
much older than my mother. She is an angel; 
and my only sorrow has been that I have not 
heard from her since I ran away. I did not 
dare to let her know where I was, and I don’t 
know how they ever found me out. When I 
was fourteen, my father died, leaving my mother 
a still beautiful woman, thirty- four years of 
age. He was insanely jealous, and I think my 
mother was urged into the advantageous marriage 
by her needy family. He left a will, made some 
years before his death, giving the entire property 
to my mother on condition of her remaining 
single. I was the only child, and (to do him 
justice) he was kind to me. In case of her re- 
marriage, she was to have only a life interest in 
one fifth of the property — the rest to be mine at 
twenty-one. On my mother’s death, the 
property was to revert to me. On my twenty- 
first birthday, the three trustees, or their sur- 


316 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


vivors, were to file a certificate before the Court 
of the fulfillment of the will. The trustees were 
absolutely enjoined from permitting her to hold 
or handle any of the principal. The property was 
very large. How large it is now, I don’t know.” 
He sighed. 

“Father wished thus to bribe my poor mother 
to remain single. I fear such restrictions only 
provoked fretting and discontent. While I was 
being prepared for college, the schemer who 
married my mother two years after my father’s 
death, appeared. He was near her own age, 
and it was fate, I suppose ! In a few months she 
was like wax in his hands. I hated and dis- 
trusted him from the first. I was alone in the 
world, when they went away for a time. He 
was a cold, handsome, gray-eyed lawyer of thirty- 
eight or forty. I soon found on their return (as 
month after month passed away) that my mother 
had no will to oppose to this stony-hearted 
stranger. I was sent away to an Academy to 
prepare for college, and on my return home on 
my second vacation, I had positive proofs that 
he looked forward eagerly to getting rid of me 
in some way. 


* ' J 

THE PASSING SHOIV ' 31? 

“I did not wish to break my mother’s heart, 
even if estranged from me. I decided therefore 
to run away from the Academy on my return. 
I did so; destroying all my private matters, save 
a few papers, I left with a friend of mine, now 
in the senior class at Harvard. I was large and 
manly. I had no trouble in getting into the Navy. 

I felt I would not live till I was twenty-one, 
v r ith his plotting dooming me to an early death. 

I have only written twice a year to my chum 
to let him know I was alive, and I know they 
are going on just the same. I don’t know how 
I was found out, or if it was the trustees, or 
my mother guided by him; but I am not going 
home. I don’t wish to risk a battle with him 
till I have all my rights, and I will not break my 
mother’s heart. ” 

“What do you intend to do, Morton?” I asked, 
as I filled his glass. “I shall go to my old chum, 
and stay near him till I am twenty-one; then I 
will find some way to prevent the official proof 
of the marriage before the court. I will settle 
half the income on my mother, as they have no 
children; that will keep her from his schemes 
and wiles, as it will be to his interest to treat 


818 


THE PASSING SHOW 


her well, the property finally reverting to me. 
I know that he maltreats her now, and I can’t 
leave her helpless. He is a cold scoundrel. I 
shall have good legal advice.” Morton pledged 
my health. 

I noticed a peculiar ring on his finger as he 
raised his glass. It was a black onyx seal, cut 
edgewise, with a white line in the middle. 
“You kept one heirloom,” I remarked. He 
smiled. “That’s the only thing I have left 
from home. I could not part with it.” He 
became taciturn. “Morton !” said I, “Our chief in 
here, is a good lawyer and an experienced man 
of the world. You had better talk things over 
with him, and let him know all your affairs. At 
any rate, leave your papers sealed in our safe. 
You can surely trust the United States Govern- 
ment!” He said, “I will think it over.” 

We went to the theatre and I saw him after 
wards safely installed at “Squire’s.” The Consul 
and I became very fond of him. He lingered 
at Marseilles. He drew the money, five hun- 
dred dollars, and also sent a dispatch to America. 
We retained his through passage money. While 
waiting for his answers, we became greatly 


THE PASSING SHOW 


315 


attached to him. The consul and his family re- 
ceived the handsome young sailor in their lovely 
home circle. He was still reticent. I had learned 
no more. No answer came to his cablegram, and 
he finally decided to leave Marseilles for Liver- 
pool in two days. It was Saturday afternoon 
when he prepared to go. He came in bright and 
happy, and asked me to dine with him, and to 
go to the El Dorado Ball. He said he would 
have a talk with the Consul next day, and leave 
him some sealed papers. “Something might 
happen,” he thoughtfully said. 

Our dinner was most jolly. We drank “Home 
Sweet Home.” He promised to write me and 
gave me an agreed on address in Boston, where 
I was to write him under the name of “Harry 
Morton.” Cigars lit, we strolled out into the 
brilliant streets of gay Marseilles. We visited 
cafe and casino. At half past eleven, the daz- 
zling ball of the El Dorado was at its full height. 
We strolled around gazing on the wonderful 
human menagerie exhibited there. Meeting 
Squires, I moved along chatting with him over 
some consular business. Morton became separa- 
ted from us in the crowd. When we had made 


320 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


a turn of the hall once or twice I sat down with 
the shipping master to enjoy a glass of Biere de 
Strasbourg, and watch the grand quadrille of 
“Minuit exact,” the opening of the mad 
revelry. Minutes dragged away; no Morton. 
An hour passed on, I became uneasy, then 
alarmed. Squires looked serious. The waltz 
music dreamily floated on the air. Lovely 
women whirled by in eager pursuit of the pleas- 
ure of the moment. They were the bright, wild 
eyed daughters of France! Shouts of revelry 
rose on the perfumed air. Squires said, “I will 
send you in an agent de Siirete here in plain 
clothes. I’ll just take a coupe and run down 
to the house. Wait here!” The mad gayety now 
revolted me. In an hour Squires returned. No 
Morton! He was very grave now. “Morton left 
three hundred dollars in French gold in my safe,” 
said he, “but no papers. His things are scattered 
around. Something may have happened to him !” 

We continued the search, till a ghastly gray 
flicker of dawn saw the last drunken revellers 
homeward bent. The Police headquarters ob- 
tained reports from all the local stations in three 
hours. I slept for an hour or two at Squires* 


* 


THE PASSING SHOW 


321 


and the Consul joined me there. Every facility 
was placed at our disposal by Count de Keratry. 
Morton’s laughing face, (as he looked back) 
when he left me a moment (through courtesy) 
as I first spoke to Squires, is now a mere 
memory. He had promised to give me his 
picture. It was never taken. All the resources 
of the successors of Vidocq failed. He was com- 
pletely lost. Was he an impostor? Had he ran 
away? 

We instantly notified the State Department; 
and the Navy Department, as well as our “For- 
eign Office” informed us that his discharge had 
been asked for, to oblige a Pennsylvania Senator, 
at the request of a Bank Director of a great 
financial institution. He had deposited one 
thousand dollars to cover the official advances 
and expenses. This gentleman had unfortu- 
nately lately died suddenly. The Department 
directed us to make a full report, and send all 
Morton’s effects home. A month and a half rolled 
away. Squires, the Consul, and our whole force 
were still on the alert. But Harry Morton 
came no more ! I had described the ring to the 
Police from its peculiar appearance, and drawn 


322 


THE PASSING SHOW 


a picture of him from memory. All the author- 
ities were still searching. It was as if the earth 
had swallowed him up silently. He drank but lit- 
tle, and a two years cruise in the Mediterranean 
must have familiarized him with all the pitfalls 
of seaports. 

One day, Squires burst into my office at the 
Consulate. “Come with me,” he said. I fol- 
lowed gloomily. Seated in the coupe, Squires 
called out: “To the Morgue.” A few minutes 
brought us there. I followed him into a private 
rear room. On a table lay the remains of a 
man’s arm, severed at the shoulder. It had been 
in the water a long time. A grave French in- 
spector led me to the other side of the table. 
There, upon the clenched and stiffened swollen 
fingers was a ring (which had been cleared to 
view) as it clung on the bone. It was the black 
onyx ring, with the white dividing line. Harry 
Morton’s poor mutilated arm, a mute witness 
of a terrible crime, lay before us. 

A fisherman, dredging for crabs in the Basin 
Napol&on of the great docks, had drawn up this 
object, and Squires was at once summoned. A 
renewal of interest was brought to the mysteri- 


THE PASSING SHOW 


323 


ous £ase by this ghastly discovery. Two theories 
were entertained. One , that poor Morton was 
skillfully lured to his death for the money in his 
pockets; this was quite probable. The other , 
was that he was sacrificed to some secret enmity. 
Then, he must have been dogged. But by whom, 
and why ? A full publication and description of 
his person, as well as the ring, in the journals 
led to the voluntary statement of one of the 
queens of the midnight ball, that she had seen 
him in converse with a man, as late as two 
o’clock, at a private restaurant of doubtful 
character near the El Dorado. She had noticed 
the fresh “brave, jeune Monsieur” and had ob- 
served the peculiar ring he wore. This she 
clearly identified. She said he looked dull and 
sleepy, but had been earnestly conversing with 
his companion, a man of the appearance of an 
ordinary American traveler. Was he an assassin 
dogging the lonely boy? 

Morton spoke but one language, so it must 
have been English. After a time they rose and 
left together, his companion paying the bill. 
This was corroborated by the waiter and cashier 
of the restaurant. It was then clear that Mor- 


324 


THE PASSING SHOJV 


ton had gone out unarmed into that midnight 
darkness, which was for him soon to be the 
blackness of death. How had he been lured 
away from our company? We never knew! 
The papers on his person were never found, 
although we offered heavy rewards. 1 wrote to 
the Boston address. No answer. The Depart- 
ment gradually ceased its inquiries. 

In due time I left Marseilles on a promotion, 
and forgot my lost “Blue Jacket ” The officers 
and men of the “Wachusett” knew nothing of 
him, save that he was always silent, and known, 
as “Gentleman Harry.” The Consul agreed with 
me that his retreat must have been discovered, 
by working on his chum, (perhaps by bribing 
him) and that a secret agent had been dispatched 
who had obtained details at Ville Franche, and 
dogged him. The French Police believed that 
he was drugged, and in some low den was cut to 
pieces, and the remains thrown in a sack, and 
tossed over the long sea wall. The returning 
tide had carried, by chance, the arm into the 
opening of the artificial harbor, the rest having 
gone out to sea. 

Ten years after, at Long Branch one after- 


THE PASSING SHOIV 


325 


noon, I was watching the carriages roll by, from 
the porch of the “West End.” Two gentlemen 
were smoking and chatting. “Yes, there goes 
‘Lucky Stimson’ and his new wife!” said one. 
I saw a well preserved man of about fifty, with a 
young woman of extraordinary beauty by his side, 
seated in an exquisitely appointed carriage. 
“He is worth many millions now. That boy’s 
death was a windfall to him.” I flecked the 
ashes off my cigar, and gazed after the retreat- 
ing Croesus. “When did that boy die? Wasn’t 
there a story about that ?” continued the speaker. 
My blood ran cold, as the other carelessly said: 
“Why, yes! He married old Howard’s widow 
(the big ship owner, you know.) Howard tied 
her all up in case of re-marriage. Property all 
to go to boy. Boy ran away, joined Navy, and 
got drowned or killed at Marseilles. Boy died 
under age. She inherited all property, d’ye see? 
Her boy’s only heiress, as he died a minor. 
She mourned herself to death. But she left 
that cold blooded devil Stimson everything! 
Now there’s his young wife. Such is life! Let’s 
have a glass of wine!” 

As they sauntered away, the plot came to me 


326 


THE PASSING SHOW 


like a flash! Stimson had discovered this loop- 
hole in the father’s will, and, I believe, was the 
author of the poor boy’s murder. I investigated 
and could only find that one of the trustees was a 
Philadelphia banker (now dead) and that the 
trust was declared void by reason of the death 
of the beneficiary. Inquiry at the Navy Depart- 
ment elicited nothing. The gloomy darkness of 
that night at Marseilles will never be lifted in 
this world. If a cowardly murderer struck the 
innocent victim, under plans so deep and far 
reaching, then the millionaire retired lawyer with 
his new wife, may yet see in his own death vigil, 
the pale accusing face of The Lost Blue Jacket. 


THE END 


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